


Sandor's Feelings Revealed

by Littlefeather



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dreams, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Long Term Relationship, Marriage, Pregnancy, Romance, Shapeshifting, Unplanned Pregnancy, Warging, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 05:04:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 65
Words: 244,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlefeather/pseuds/Littlefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My attempt to add context and explore Sandor and Sansa's relationship as an A/U. This story explores the way Sandor's experiences have affected him, his relationship with Sansa and how they cope with their respective problems as a couple. Starting with Chapter 25, this story details the transformation of his personality in a divergence from events in ASOS. </p><p>Thanks to caroh99 for her selflessness and super terrific beta skills!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Conversation in the Red Keep

**Author's Note:**

> All of my fanfics featuring Jaime Lannister will stick to his CANON characterization so there is no need to worry when reading my stories. If ever I feature violence towards women (which is rare for me) I always place an asterisk beside the paragraph and a warning at the beginning of the story. If you ever feel anything needs tagging, please let me know. Your comfort comes FIRST.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains a flashback of sexual assault. Please be aware it is retelling of the HBO episode featuring the attack on Sansa and I have not added any further detail.
> 
> I have put an asterisk (*) next to the trigger paragraph so you can avoid it altogether and still enjoy the rest of the chapter :) I have done the same throughout this story as the welfare of my readers is my priority. Enjoy!

Sansa is running through an alcove and down a dark corridor...and then suddenly reaches a dead end. _I am a wolf, I am a wolf,_ she tells herself, her heart pounding loudly in her ears. For a brief second she wishes she had played more with Arya:  _she would know what to do, she always managed to best the boys at home._ Thinking of her sister fortifies Sansa with bravery and turning to face the men chasing her, anger and fear floods through her as she slaps the man closest to her with all her strength. As soon as she feels her hand strike his greasy cheek, she realizes her blow isn't hard enough to dissuade him and her stomach sinks with fear.

***** The drunken peasant is barely fazed by her blow and the gleam of hatred in his eyes sends a chill through the young woman before he returns her stroke; striking her just below her eye, the man sends her sprawling to the ground.

 _ ***** Where am I?_ Sansa no longer can see in her panic; only blackness surrounds her and she is assaulted by her other senses all heightening her terror. Several pairs of hands grab her all at once: her ankles, her dress, her shoulders and breasts...she hears the fine material of her gown rending while her small clothes and the bodice of her dress is ripped away by filthy, meaty hands.

 ***** Hot drunken breath assaults her nose as the man hisses into her ear. "Have you ever been _fucked_ , little girl?" Tightening into a ball, Sansa whimpers as she feels herself flipped onto her back and her legs being pried apart, despite her kicking and struggling.

 ***** _Surely Joffrey sent the Kingsguard for her...would anyone know to look for me here?_ Sansa once again tries to find her voice to scream but panic robs her of strength and renders her unable to fill her lungs with air. Gagging at the stench of unwashed male bodies, terror consumes her, sickened with the knowledge of what is to come. One of the men reaches into his pants...

"My lady! My lady, wake up!" Sansa gasps and suddenly Shae's arms are around her, holding her tightly. Sobbing in relief, Sansa discovers she is violently trembling and tears streak down her cheeks. "You were having another nightmare, Sweetling. Shh, there there, my lady, no one can hurt you here," Shae soothingly runs her hands over Sansa's hair while cradling her in her arms.

The frightened young woman glances up to see the door to her bedchamber is destroyed, with large pieces of splintered wood scattered all over the floor. Peeking at her tentatively from the hallway is the Hound, his normally keen grey eyes soften with concern as he looks at her. His massive right hand grips his sword hilt with such strength Sansa notices his knuckles have turned white.

Sansa casts a questioning look at Shae but her fear leaves her unable to form words. "You were screaming, my lady," Shae explains as she nods toward Sandor. "The Hound kicked the door open to get to you. If there had been an intruder I would have pitied him."

Frowning, Sandor nods curtly at Shae while casting another worried look at Sansa. Shyly, Sansa gives him a small smile before he quickly disappears into the hallway of Red Keep.

Once Sansa quiets down, Shae fills the bathtub with steaming water and adds lavender petals to calm the shaking girl. Sansa gingerly steps into the bath, sinking in up to her neck and the young woman enjoys feeling her sore body immersed in the hot water. "I should have gone to him already, Shae. I've waited three days and I'm afraid I have offended him."

Shrugging, Shae nods casually; highborn thanking the help is a new concept for the woman. Tyrion regaled her with tales of the Hound's brutality in battle and she also knows Sansa's lady mother put Tyrion on trial for her son's injury. She cannot help but giggle thinking what Sansa's mother would say if she knew her daughter's handmaiden is also a former camp follower and now Tyrion's kept woman. Even more laughable is imagining what Lady Catelyn would say if she discovered her highborn daughter cares what the Hound, the fiercest warrior in Westoros, thinks of her.

"The Hound is a killer. He gets called dog by a fourteen year old boy king who orders him around all day long. I don't think he'll take offense that a traumatized maiden forgot her courtesies for a few days, my lady. After dealing with Joffrey, it's no wonder he always looks sour!" Shae and Sansa both giggle at the thought of the Hound being offended after what he endures on a daily basis.

"Still, I'd feel better if I at least thanked him," Sansa whispers, staring off into space. Sansa still can feel the Hound's intense gaze upon her and wonders at the dramatic change in his eyes; the memory of him makes her warm and fluttery inside her stomach.

Closing her eyes, Sansa replays the feel of his strong arms when he gently lifted her over his shoulder after the attack. She had leaned against the massive muscles covering his shoulder blades while tightly gripping his cloak, the velvet soft against her cheek and hands. The Hound smelled of armor, sweat, horses and wine, just like her father and brothers. She remembers her waist curved right into the side of his neck and her hip brushed his jaw as he carried her to safety; the memory causing Sansa's cheeks to flush bright red with embarassment.

Shae eyes Sansa carefully as she lathers her hair. "As you wish, my lady. First, let me wash and brush your hair and we'll pick out a lovely gown for you. Then you go to him; maybe it will bring peace to your sleep to speak your thanks to him."

 _Has Sansa perchance developed a crush on her rescuer_? Shae wonders to herself as she rinses Sansa's waist length hair. Experience has taught her those things often happen but with Sansa and _the Hound?_ She shakes her head, summarily dismissing the farfetched idea while toweling off the young woman with care.

When Sansa finishes bathing, she dresses in her best gown which is similar in color to the one she wore on Joffrey's nameday. It reminds her that on that very day Sandor backed up her story about it being bad luck for Joffrey should he kill on his nameday; Sandor's words were the only reason Joffrey believed her and saved her from a terrible punishment. She remembers another act of kindness when he wiped her lip with such tenderness after Ser Meryn struck her.

 _Whatever motivates him to continue to do such things for me?_   Briefly Sansa allows herself to think he might actually care for her; she has noticed him staring at her when he thinks she cannot see him and never seems very far away from her. _But he's the Hound, he doesn't care for anyone,_ she quickly dismisses the wild thought from her mind.

Sansa discovers she is surprisingly nervous at the thought of speaking with the fearsome man. Trying on several of her best shawls, she rejects them one by one and instead choses a wrap Shae had given her. Stepping closer to the mirror, she notices she still has a dark bruise and cut below her eye. No way to hide that from him, she shrugs, wondering to herself when exactly she started caring what the Hound thinks of her appearance.

Wandering the halls of the Red Keep, Sansa tries to imagine where she might find him. _He is usually on duty at this time of day still...where can he be?_ Suddenly Sansa notices a large figure turn around the corner and sees the Hound is now walking straight towards her.

 

* * *

Sandor has wandered aimlessly during the last hours of his guard duty shift in the Red Keep. Except for a few drunken lords returning from a night on the town, nothing much has happened until he heard Sansa's scream.

Hearing the blood curdling sound from her rooms recalled the day of the riots and the Hound felt the same black rage return to him. His heart pounded in fear and anger as he raced to her and he vented his feelings on her door, fairly ripping the solid oak structure away from its iron hinges in his eagerness to help her. Sansa's maid burst in right after him and flew to Sansa's side, rocking the crying girl in her arms.

Glancing around, the Little bird appeared safe, in one piece and alone in her room. He stared at her as she sobbed, his heart breaking; Sandor saved her physically but was helpless to protect her from the nightmares that haunted her sleep.

As he looked on, he couldn't help but notice her bed gown had slipped from her shoulders, exposing the tops her breasts and her perfect creamy skin setting off her fiery hair cascading down her back. Even in her distress and crying her eyes out, she was the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.

Suddenly he felt himself go hard and the laces on his pants tighten so he averted his eyes and backed out of the room slowly. _How can you look at her like that when she's suffering, dog?_   He growls to himself, disgusted at his body's response.

As her sobs continued, he dared to peek around the corner at her once again and the Little bird looked up as her maid whispered something to her. Her surprised expression transformed into relief and her lips curled in the smallest whisper of a smile at him. Sandor thrilled at the sight of her sitting in bed with her gown falling off her shoulders smiling at him sadly, her beauty mesmerizing him body and soul. He wanted to say something to her but the words wouldn't come and so the Hound only nods at her maid and turns to leave.

Sandor knows she wants to go home to Winterfell. _She doesn't belong in this place._ He wishes he could steal her away from Joffrey and the misery she has endured in King's Landing. The man longs to go to her and take her in his arms. He could keep her safe. No one would dare try to hurt her or he would kill them.

Secretly he worries about how badly he must have scared her when he killed her attackers. Sandor turned them away from her when he dispatched them but he knew that did little to blunt the Little bird's experience of seeing four men killed at her feet.

Sandor even turned his own face away from her, trying to still the black rage and blood lust from his countenance before facing her once again. "You're alright now, Little bird, you're alright," he said, trying to affect a calm tone to his rasping voice. It is the first time he ever tried to comfort anyone, even using his secret pet name for her out loud in hopes it would reassure her. Still, he fears his efforts did little to help her and the very sight of him will bring back frightening memories to the delicate young woman.

As Sandor walks toward Sansa, the sight of her unaccompanied his mind is enveloped with anger. What _is she doing out here by herself? Why doesn't she have her maids with her? Don't they realize she shouldn't be left unattended in her state?_ As she draws closer, he notices she is wearing same gown she wore when he kept her from killing Joffrey. She smells of lavender and her beautiful deep auburn hair is hanging loose. Briefly he wonders what it would feel like to run his hands through it, to hold her in his arms and inhale her scent.

 _Must've had a bath after I left._ Sandor allows his mind to replay the glimpses of her body he had seen the day Joffrey had her stripped. Disgusted at the king's actions, he tried not to notice the sight of her flawless skin, perfect round breasts tipped with pink nipples and a perfectly shaped backside curving out from her tiny waist; he averted his eyes but everyone in the throne room had seen her that day and he has overheard the men discussing her ever since.

He wishes he could see her naked willingly, her perfect mouth tilted up to kiss him. His mind goes back to the sight of her bare skin and bed gown earlier...he would love to have been in bed with her, touching and tasting her beautiful body. Her cries would come from his pleasuring her and not from fear...and the man feels himself harden for the second time that day at the thought of her.

So lost in his thoughts of her is Sandor that he walks straight past her, only slowing when he hears her soft voice, "I beg pardon, Ser."

 _I'm no ser,_ he grouses bitterly as he slowly turns to face her. _Bloody hells, the girl has turned me into one her buggering knights; she needs a dose of reality before she gets hurt._

Sandor overheard Tyrion imploring Ser Meryn to look for Sansa the day of the bread riots; his bastard nephew wanted to leave her to the crowd to be raped and refused to command the man to go after her. _You should be grateful I'm no ser, or you would've ended up like Lady Stokeworth's daughter._ The words sit on the tip of his tongue but instead he pauses, reminding himself how very young she is and what she has been through.

Shyly she looks up at him, a faint smile playing on her lips. "I should have come to you after, to thank you for saving me. You were so brave."

"Brave?" He mockingly repeats, unable to stop himself. _For killing a few horny half-starved peasants?_   Sandor wants to laugh at her naiveté and though he hates to hurt her, he knows he must shatter her delusions about knights. "A dog doesn't need courage to chase off rats." He angrily spits out, regretting the change in her demeanor as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Disappointment mixed with anger stirs in her. _Why is he being so awful? Can he not see I am merely trying to thank him and allow me to express my appreciation for what he did for me?_   "Does it give you joy to scare people?" Sansa retorts icily, bristling as she turns to face him.

By her sudden change in expression Sandor discerns he has quelled her illusions of him being her knight in shining armor. Safer _for her to learn from me than at the hands of Ser Meryn. I can't believe she still thinks well of those buggering bastard pretty boys who prance around the castle in their Kingsguard armor who are as likely as any to rape her._ Sandor has pummeled them mercilessly many times for making filthy comments about her as they practice in the yard. _They are all cowards,_ he seethes inwardly. Meryn is even afraid of Tyrion's small but feisty sellsword, much to Sandor's amusement.

If Sansa was very unlucky she may come across another monster like his brother Gregor, though he doesn't personally know anyone else who lives up to that description in King's Landing or anywhere, for that matter. Sansa needs to learn not to trust any knight or anyone in the Kingsguard, not even me, if she is to stay safe.

"No, it gives me joy to kill people," he rasps while stepping toward her menacingly for emphasis. Confused, Sansa's eyes widen and she steps back a few paces, looking around as he speaks. "Spare me, you can't tell me Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell never killed a man."

"It was his duty! He never liked it!" She sputters furiously, finding her voice at last. She is angered not so much by his words but in realizing he is right; her father loyally served his king without question, no different from the Kingsguard, in her mind. Over the years he earned King Robert's trust and friendship, eventually leading to him becoming the Hand of the King.

 _Why is he saying this to me? Why is he behaving so differently?_ Sansa fumes until her anger is abruptly halted by the realization that he wants to protect her. _Sandor knows the other knights better than I do. He wants me to fear and avoid them-even him, so as not to draw any more attention to myself._

Quickly Ser Meryn comes into her mind; she knows he becomes aroused by beating her. Sansa has been on eye level with his groin enough times as he raised his sword to strike her to have seen evidence of that and every day the repulsive knight leers at her right in front of an oblivious Joffrey, his beady black eyes saying all that he wished he could do to her, what he will do if given the chance alone with her.

_Sandor apparently has noticed this too and being aware of the danger to me, he is trying to make me understand the peril of my situation. He would teach me to be cautious at the cost of sacrificing my trust and good opinion of him._

Gratitude swells in her heart as she suddenly draws another conclusion. _He loves me; his eyes cannot hide it._ It touches her deeply and Sansa can feel her heart fluttering in her chest as she gazes straight into his eyes, noticing for the first time they are beautiful deep gray and remind her of the pool in the godswood at Winterfell.

 _He makes a striking figure in his armor, his broad back and chiseled chest visible underneath his doublet._ The thought of having the love of such a large and powerful warrior excites Sansa in a way that Joffrey's wormy kisses or Loras' flowers never did. The young woman is even more surprised to feel herself returning his love. Sansa has choked down her feelings and chirped her courtesies for so long she is never rightly sure how she truly feels anymore. _How long have I loved him and not known it?_

Sandor watches the transformation in her eyes; Sansa suddenly went from angry to another look he cannot name, having little experience with women outside of brothels. It _isn't like women are lining up to look me in the face._ Sansa is now looking him straight in the face with a softened expression, her Tully blue eyes darkening with increasing intensity as she unabashedly gazes at him.

Puzzled by her behavior, he notices her ample breasts straining the neckline of her gown as her chest quickly rises and falls and her cheeks are flushed clear down to her neck. _Bloody hells, she's even more beautiful when she's angry,_ he thinks, swallowing hard. He knows he must stop this alteration in the tone of their conversation if he expects to succeed in teaching her to be wary of knights. _Just put an end to this right now, dog; her safety depends on it. Mentioning her father again should do the job._

"Is that what he told you? He lied." Sandor emphasizes his words in an effort to hide his emotion. Seeing the passion in her eyes, the man cannot resist taking a step closer, narrowing the distance between them. Their close proximity and the lavender scent of her hair intoxicate him, bringing him dangerously close to kissing her.

"Killing is the sweetest thing there is," he rasps, careful to avoid any hint of emotion in his voice. _But nothing would be as sweet as having you as my wife, being able to kiss and taste every inch of you. The feeling of your beautiful body beneath me, hearing you cry out my name in pleasure would truly be the sweetest thing I have ever known,_ he adds silently, the hunger in his eyes unmistakable.

Sandor's passionate gaze betrays his emotions as he allows his eyes to roam heatedly over her body; little does he realize he is mirroring the desire blazing in Sansa's eyes. Suddenly he is aware of the silence between them and is suddenly brought back to the present by the sound of her voice.

"Why are you always so hateful?" Sansa asks vehemently, passion seeping into her voice, all the while trembling under the Hound's heated gaze. She doesn't mean her words; he has always been kind to her, but it is the first thing that pops into her head, warm and dizzy as she is from being so close to him. She cannot tear her eyes away from his and finds herself barely able to think straight in his presence. A rush of arousal spreads warmth through her belly, making Sansa hunger for his touch.

"You'll be glad of the hateful things I do someday, when I'm all that stands between you and your beloved king." He speaks slowly, emphasizing the word beloved as though it is a curse word rather than a term of endearment. The very thought of Joffrey having his Little bird as his queen-and in his bed-sickens him with jealousy and his words come out far harsher than he intends.

Sansa licks her lips as he speaks and subconsciously she moves still closer to him, shocked by his promise to protect her from Joffrey. _He is telling me he would risk his own life to keep me safe from the king; it is his way of saying he loves me as I love him._ Now that she understands his feelings and returns them she knows her life would be totally unbearable without his love, distant though it is...she would not be able to survive without him there.

She longs to reach up and caress his cheek and tell Sandor she knows he loves her; he all but admitted it outright. She desperately needs to let him know she loves him too, and her hand aches to reach up and draw his face down to hers. Every instinct inside her desires the feel of his mouth pressed against her lips, brushing her tongue against his and allow his hands to roam her body.

More than anything in the world she yearns to show him physically how much he means to her and feeling his passionate gaze, she realizes she wants him to make love to her and take her maidenhead, not Joffrey. Sansa tilts her head to him shyly, her thoughts interrupted by the sound of the changing of the guard. Turning away sadly, the young woman knows their moment is over.

Sandor looks down at her, his eyes reflecting her thoughts. He expressed his love for her in the only way possible, vowing he would stand between her and Joffrey and keep her safe. His love for her gives him a better understanding of Jaime Lannister now; Sandor knows he too would do anything, even become a Kingslayer, to keep his love safe.

Now that she opened her heart to him, he would never be the same. Sandor would give his life a thousand times for her and go to meet the Stranger gladly with the knowledge that she loves him, too. Overwhelmed by this unexpected revelation, the man finds he cannot tear his eyes away from her as she slowly makes her way back to her rooms.

* * *

As Sansa walks away from him, she feels Sandor's absence acutely in her heart. Tears threaten to spill from her eyes and she hurries along, desperate to be alone with her thoughts.

Once she is in her rooms and free to express her emotions, Sansa cries herself to sleep, only this time she dreams of walking with Sandor along a river in the north holding hands.

It is the first time Sansa hears her father's voice since his death, and the young woman feels a rush of love for him. In her heart, she listens in astonishment as he tells her the time will soon come for her to leave with Sandor, to trust him and that they will be safer and stronger together. When Sansa awakens, the dream feels so very real, so true that the young woman is filled with hope and the first measure of peace she has known since arriving in King's Landing.


	2. Sansa's Flowering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Little bird is standing beside her bed, her face paler than he has ever seen, with blood all over her nightgown. Panicked, he glances around and sees there is blood on her mattress as well, which is appears to have been moved slightly askew and torn. What had happened to her? Did some buggering hastard rape her? 
> 
> "So the maid told me you were trying to hide your moonblood, is that so?" Ser Preston smirks. Sansa miserably raises her eyes to meet Sandor's gaze but makes no effort to respond. The sight of her forlorn state brings a familiar black rage seeping into Sandor's heart at the new knight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a scene of violence against women. I have placed an asterisk (*) next to the trigger paragraph for my readers who may find it disturbing so you can skip it and still enjoy the rest of the story :)

 

Sandor's night watch duty shift has only been over an hour and yet he still yearns to get back to the Red Keep. Being in the Red Keep once meant being on duty for him; now it means he is near Sansa's rooms, close to his Little bird. Draining the flask of wine he keeps on his nightstand, the man is still too wound up from what transpired earlier with Sansa to fall sleep.

He has remained as hard as stone constantly replaying their conversation in his mind and Sandor longs for relief. Normally he would go to one of Littlefinger's establishments in search of a red-haired whore. Often Sandor has paid extra for the girls to keep their mouths shut and their legs open so he can imagine he was with Sansa and that it was into her beautiful body he was thrusting and spilling his seed. Imagining her in this way always spurs him on, ripping a primal cry of pleasure from his throat that he is unable to contain as he finds his release. Once he comes back to his senses though, the thought of her makes him ashamed and eager to leave the wench as quickly as possible.

Now the very idea fills him with shame, giving him the irrational feeling he is being unfaithful to Sansa. After tossing and turning a bit, he starts to take himself in hand and then suddenly changes his mind, instead deciding to get up and check on the new member of the Kingsguard on duty, Ser Preston.

His heart quickens at the thought he may have another opportunity to see Sansa today and so for once Sandor gives thought to his appearance, considering how he must look to the Little bird. He knows he must smell of horses, sweat, wine and worse after a day of training and a night spent on watchmen duty and just thinking about having another chance to talk to her or even another moment of closeness with her makes him self-conscious.

"I should have a bath first. Damn me, I don't have much to work with," he grumbles as he lathers and rinses his body. Sandor is proud to a have the muscled physique of a warrior honed from countless hours of training, but his face is another matter. _Fuck me, this is what people see first,_ he sighs, glancing at his scarred visage in the mirror. Still, he figures that such a delicate maiden as Sansa no doubt prefers to have him cleaned up some at least.

Carefully Sandor combs his damp hair over the burned side of his face and stares at his reflection. _Here I am, a grown-ass man, scared to death over what a fifteen year old girl thinks of me,_ he muses, chuckling to himself at his own foolishness.

Dressing in a fresh doublet and pants, the scarred man then fastens on his light armor. By the time he dresses, sheathes his weapons and puts on his sword belt, it is mid-morning. _I hope the Little Bird wasn't troubled by any more nightmares,_ he thinks as he hurriedly walks back to the Red Keep.

As he enters the corridor leading toward Sansa's chambers, Sandor notices one of the maids racing out of the bedroom with her dark-haired handmaiden Shae in hot pursuit. Ser Preston, who was raised to knighthood after the bread riots, rushes past the maids into Sansa's bedchamber.

 _What in seven hells does he think he's doing?_ Sandor grumbles to himself, striding in after him. The Little bird is standing beside her bed, her face paler than he has ever seen, with blood all over her nightgown. Panicked, he glances around and sees there is blood on her mattress as well, which is appears to have been moved slightly askew and torn. _What had happened to her?_ _Did some buggering hastard rape her?_ Sandor wonders, not immediately grasping her situation. Ser Preston's next words answer provide an answer to his questions.

"So the maid told me you were trying to hide your moonblood, is that so? And that foreign bitch of a handmaiden conspired with you to deceive the queen as well?" Ser Preston smirks. Sansa miserably raises her eyes to meet Sandor's gaze but makes no effort to respond. The sight of her forlorn state brings a familiar black rage seeping into Sandor's heart at the new knight.

"Hound, look what she was trying to hide," Ser Preston motions to the bed with a sharp laugh. "It seems Sansa is fast becoming every bit the traitor her father was. Come, I need to inform the queen of your treachery." Waving his hand, Ser Preston gestures for Sansa to approach him, nodding to Sandor.

"She's not fit to be in the queen's presence like this. Get a robe on, girl, and change your gown." Sandor rasps low. Puzzled, Sansa just stares at him, remaining frozen in place. "Do as your bid child," he says softly, pushing her gently toward her wardrobe.

"Come, let's give Joff's betrothed some privacy while she changes," Sandor casually says, moving out to the balcony and turning his head away from Ser Preston. The newest member of the Kingsguard follows Sandor's lead out onto the balcony as well, taking in the view of Blackwater Bay. Inhaling the salty air, the man points eastward and comments, "I think Stannis will come in from over there."

Grinning wickedly, Sandor sees his opportunity and when Sansa peeks around the wardrobe she see Sandor wringing Ser Preston's neck. Both stunned and fascinated, she watches the Hound twisting the man's head away from his shoulders in one smooth motion, the loud crack of broken bones echoing in Sansa's ears. When Ser Preston is motionless, Sandor lifts him over the railing and tosses him over the side, watching as his lifeless body splashes into the moat below.

"Sandor, oh my-what have you done?" Sansa gasps, backing away from him, her eyes filling with terror. Feeling her stomach churn and the color drain from her face, Sansa suddenly finds herself swaying toward him. Anxiety, shock and the humiliation of the morning paired with having just seen Sandor kill a member of the Kingsguard with his bare hands overwhelms the young woman, who grasps for him helplessly as she begins to fall.

Sandor gently catches her in his arms and eases her down on the edge of the bed before moving away from her. When Sansa looks up she sees him silently staring down at her.

He knows killing Preston would upset her but it had to be done to protect her; however there is nothing he can do to hide the arrival of her moon-blood. Living with Cersei taught Sandor that Sansa will need special cloths and would never have been able to keep such a thing hidden. No, now it was a matter of covering up her efforts to keep it secret from the queen, since hiding her moon-blood is equal to deliberately denying the king heirs, a supreme act of treachery punishable by death.

Just then Shae bursts into the room, skidding to an abrupt halt when she sees Sandor at the head of Sansa's bed, and the young woman wills herself to remain silent in his presence. Inside she rages knowing the Hound is the one to discover their faulty attempts at deception, the man being notoriously impervious to the charms of women. _But where was the other member of the Kingsguard, Ser Preston? He couldn't have left, I would have passed him in the hallway._

Glancing around the room, her eyes fall on one boot on the balcony floor. Shae quickly steps inside and closes the door. "It appears you have taken care of our problem, my Lord," Shae smirks with a suggestive nod at the boot. "Sansa, your bath is getting cold, child. Won't you go in? I'll be right there."

Reluctantly Sansa moves toward the bathroom, all the while staring at them. Once Sansa is out of earshot, Sandor leans in close to the handmaiden.

"There's still the matter of the body," Sandor says in a low tone, watching Sansa leave the room out of the corner of his eye as he wearily sits down on Sansa's bed.

Shae nods solemnly, lost in thought. The sound of rustling material from the bathroom carries into the bedroom as Sansa undresses for her bath. The mental image of the lovely young woman lowering her nude body into the tub suddenly assaults Sandor's senses, causing him to cough several times, and Shae knowingly smirks at him. Quickly he forces his mind back to their situation. "What say you?" Sandor asks gruffly in an attempt to change the subject.

Shae knows Sandor holds no delusions about her real identity or why she is in the Red Keep. "My lion may have already solved your problem for you. He had the moat filled with crocodiles the day before last in anticipation of Stannis' attack."

Sandor laughs out loud. _Crocodiles...how did he come up with such a trick? I have to hand it to the Imp, he is a resourceful bugger._ "Where is the other maid-the one that called Ser Preston?" Sandor asks.

"I threatened her with my knife. Last I saw she was headed for her quarters," replies Shae with a shrug.

Sandor grimly nods and stands to leave. "I'll be back to take Sansa to the queen. It's better for her if Cersei hears it out of her own mouth."

"She'll be ready my Lord." Shae nods, knowing full well what Sandor will do next.

* * *

Sandor slips into an alcove not far from Sansa's rooms and taps several of the stones in the wall until one slightly shifts under his touch, opening one of the many secret passages in the Red Keep. Only a handful of people know of these passageways and Sandor learned them from King Robert after Joffrey was born.

 _The maid might have gone to her room first but only to make herself presentable to appear before the queen,_ Sandor thinks with a grunt. Racing up two flights of stairs to the royal chambers, Sandor opens the door of the hallway leading to the queens' private rooms. The Hound takes hold of him as he remembers Sansa's look of desperation when he entered her bedchamber.

Stalking the hallway in search of the maid, Sandor spies the girl at the other end of the corridor, recognizing her as the blonde maid who provides more intimate services to the lower ranked guards. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out two gold stags and holds them up for her to see. _Don't let her see the Hound or she'll run,_ Sandor reminds himself, forcing a smile as she approaches him.

Smiled up at Sandor, she purrs seductively, "My Lord, I'm honored you would seek out my company." Running her fingers up the side of his arm, she looks around and whispers, "I was just on my way to the queen. If you wait for me I'll make you happy you did."

"What I want will only take a few minutes, girl," Sandor replies gruffly, pushing her into the alcove by the staircase. The maid gasps and giggles, tucking the coins into her cleavage and raising her skirts for him as Sandor takes her into his arms.

"Get this damned dress out of my way. I want to get a look at what I've paid for," he rasps, tugging at her lacings. Laughing, she turns her back to him, raising her hair to indicate she needs help with the fastenings. "Such an bad dog!"

 ***** "You should have been loyal to your Lady Sansa!" Sandor snarls into her ear before quickly dispatching her with the same movement he used on Ser Preston. Dragging her a few feet, he tosses her down the staircase, her lifeless body finally settling on the landing. To the untrained eye she appears to have tripped and fallen to her death, Sandor thinks before hurrying back to the hidden passageway.

It seems to Shae that Sandor has only been gone a few minutes when she hears his familiar knock at the door. Giving her a knowing look, the man nods when she opened the door for him. Shae quietly retires to the bathroom, busying herself with folding towels to give the pair some privacy and Sandor steps inside quickly, eager to see his Little bird.

At the sight of her before him, Sandor relaxes, his expression softening under the beauty of her gaze. Freshly bathed, Sansa wears a clean housegown and robe in a soft blue that turns her eyes the color of the sky. He notices the ends of Sansa's hair are still damp and the room is filled with the scent of lavender. Sansa seems to glow from within as she blushes under his gaze. A sad smile appears on her lovely face, and he realizes she no longer fears him still but still is painfully shy after the events of the morning. Sandor's heart leaps and his laces tighten painfully at the sight of his blushing Little bird smiling sweetly at him.

He cannot resist the urge to reach out and caress her cheek with his finger, grazing the area just below her cut with the barest whisper of a stroke. Her smile broadens at the feeling of his touch and gazing up at him with unspoken gratitude, Sansa gently touches his hand cradling her face, sighing softly at the feel of his skin against her own.

Thrilled by her response, Sandor feels himself returning her smile and, taking her by the hand, he gently places it on the crook of his elbow. She smiles up at him again and lightly squeezes his bicep in response, indicating she is ready to face Cersei. Covering her hand with his, Sandor touches her face once more and then slowly leads Sansa out the door.


	3. Before the Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It'll be alright Sansa, I won't let anyone hurt you. I'll keep you safe," he says finally. Sansa remains quiet and reaches for one of his large hands, tenderly raising it to her lips and lightly kissing him several times before resting it against her cheek. Stunned, Sandor stays stock still, afraid to break the moment.

* * *

After escorting her back to her rooms from her visit with Cersei, Sandor closes the door of her room behind them. "How did it go? What did she say?" he eagerly asks. The anxious man spent the whole of Sansa's visit pacing the halls, panic welling up inside of him, knowing full well that Sansa starting her moon blood meant an immediate marriage to Joffrey.

"It was a bit unusual, the queen was almost nice to me. She all but told me she didn't expect me to love Joffrey and that loving my children would be the most important thing I did as queen." Sansa furrows her brows as she considering the implication behind Cersei's words.

"A mother knows her son better than anyone. She can't be blind to what a sadistic bastard Joffrey has become. I'm not sure why she thinks his children would be any different," Sandor shrugs and then coughs before continuing, "Did she say when you would become Queen?" The scarred man cannot even bring himself to form the words 'Joffrey's wife' when asking the question pressing so urgently in his mind and heart.

"No, she didn't. She's preoccupied with the arrival of StannismBaratheon's troops. They were spotted by some of her grace's Dornish informants several days ago sailing this way."

As Joffrey's guard he knows this already but is surprised the queen burdened Sansa with this knowledge. "The Queen expects them to reach Blackwater Bay in two, possibly three days," Sansa continues, her voice breaking in fear, trembling as she looks out her window at the horizon.

Sandor walks over to her and gently pulls her close to him, pressing her back to his chest. Drawing a deep breath, he inhales her feminine scent as his arms reach around her tiny waist. Sansa feels him resting his chin in her hair and responds by running her hands down his arms, snuggling in closer to him.

Thrilled by her touch, Sandor's heart pounds in his chest and the man is unsure what to do next. "It'll be alright Sansa, I won't let anyone hurt you. I'll keep you safe," he says finally.

Sansa remains quiet and reaches for one of his large hands, tenderly raising it to her lips and lightly kissing him several times before resting it against her cheek. Stunned, Sandor stays stock still, afraid to break the moment. After several minutes she kisses him again before returning his hand to her waist.

Feeling the delicate moisture of her parted lips on his skin, Sandor swallows hard to remove the lump in his throat, his manhood suddenly hard in response to her intimate gesture. Holding her in his arms is the best feeling he has ever known and the very touch and scent of the little bird awakens powerful emotions in his mind and heart.

He so desperately longs to turn her around and wrap his arms around her, to take away her fear by holding her body close to his as he runs his fingers through the silken strands of her hair. Sandor's emotions threatens to overpower him and he knows if he stays any longer more will happen with her than he intends. Gently he moves away from her, silently taking her hand and kissing it several times in return while gazing into eyes.

Sansa leans into him, smiling shyly as she tentatively places her hands on his jerkin. Looking into his eyes, she gently pulls him closer and then softly kisses the burned side of his face. Taken aback, he turns his head slightly and tenderly covers her mouth with his own and experiences his first kiss given freely and with affection by the woman he loves. Overcome with emotion, he squeezes her close and then hurries out of the room, eager to be alone with his thoughts.

The next three days Sandor spends constantly with Joffrey, Tyrion, and Tyrion's sellsword Bronn. Making preparations for the defense of the city has taken over all his waking hours and his mood deteriorates from bad to worse in their company while his heart aches from being separated from his Little bird. At night, Sandor lies in bed savoring the taste and smell of her as he replays the memory of holding Sansa in his arms. With the constant annoyance of the other men, Sandor fears he will take out his frustration on whoever is closest to him, as he is sorely tempted to bash their heads open at any given moment.

The knowledge that his work is in the interest of protecting Sansa is his only consolation and she is constantly in this thoughts as he goes about training men and fortifying the castle walls from an invasion from the sea. In truth, he doesn't give a fuck for the city, Joffrey, or anyone else. As far as he is concerned they are all about to get what is coming to them; only his love for Sansa keeps him from leaving everyone in King's Landing to their own devices.

At sunset on the third day while Sandor sits drinking in Littlefinger's brothel, Stannis' troops are spotted approaching Blackwater Bay. The upcoming battle has markedly intensified his anxiety for Sansa's safety and keeps him on edge all the time As he watches the men singing and feeling no pain from the Dornish red, Sandor's already limited tolerance for Bronn comes to an abrupt end.

Bronn's jovial demeanor grates on Sandor's nerves and if it wasn't for the naked whore on his lap he would kill him without giving it a second thought. Sandor's patience has reached its limit and the scarred man is in desperate need for an outlet for his rage and anxiety. Standing to face him, Sandor is mere seconds away from slicing Bronn in half with his greatsword when the sound of the tolling bells stop interrupt them.

At the sound of the bells, Shae runs to Sansa's rooms and grabs a bag of provisions she kept packed for her mistress. Taking Sansa by the hand, she hurries toward the last bastion of protection in the Red Keep, Maegor's Holdfast. All the other highborn ladies pour into the halls heading for the feast the Queen prepared for them to wait out the battle.

Quickly they make their way to the Throne room and briefly Sansa thinks how beautiful it seems, alight with the flames of the large brazier. Although they have never spoken of it, Sansa knows it is Tyrion who brought Shae to the Red Keep and installed her as her handmaiden and she is grateful to Tyrion for her. Sansa stops for moment at the sight of him in the Throne Room, giving Shae her opportunity to speak to him in private before the battle.

Resplendent in his new armor, Joffrey swaggers into the throne room with Sandor Clegane and the other members of the Kingsguard in tow.

"Sansa! Sansa!" he bawls at the top of his voice, though Sansa stands not twenty feet away from him and when his eyes fall on her he demands she come near to him immediately,

Sansa and Shae exchange puzzled glances before Sansa turns to Tyrion. "I will pray for your safety my Lord."

"Will you?" asks Tyrion in reply, raising his eyebrow at her.

"Just as I pray for the safety of the King." Tyrion and Shae traded looks, knowing Sansa is only being polite but the couple appreciates her effort at kindness under the circumstances just the same.

Sandor stands silently next to Joffrey, his face twisting into frightening grimace and his anger boiling at the sound of his whiney voice shouting Sansa's name "What on seven hells does he want with her now?"

As his bodyguard it is Sandor's job to protect the king but now he finds himself seriously considering becoming mysteriously absent should the time to protect Joffrey arise.

"Your king rides forth to battle, you should see him off with a kiss" Joffrey announces with an arrogant smirk, allowing his eyes to roam over Sansa's body.

"He wants me to kiss him?" Sansa wonders before noticing his arrogant posture as he draws out his sword.

"My new blade. Hearteater I've named it. Kiss it." Joffrey commands, leering and licking his lips as he watches her expectantly.

Sansa looks down at the gleaming steel blade, puzzling why he wants this from her. Gingerly she bends down and kisses the blade lightly, her mouth leaving a slight trace of moisture on the cold metal blade.

Smirking, Jofffrey licks his lips again at the sight while Sandor rolls his eyes. _You sick little fuck,_ he silently fumes, knowing Sansa is far too innocent to understand the implication. Shae didn't miss the suggestiveness of the act however; frowning, she shakes her head slightly at Tyrion who mirrors her look of disgust at his nephew's behavior.

After exchanging a few sarcastic verbal spars with Sansa, Joffrey abruptly departs the room with Sandor and the rest of the Kingsguard rushing to follow him. Tyrion also turns to his men and exits the throne room.

Watching Tyrion leave, Shae softly says, "Some of those boys are never coming back."

A bitter coldness come over her as Sansa's eyes follow Sandor, tears welling in her eyes as he disappears from view. _Joffrey cheated me out of my chance to say goodbye to him...this could very well be the last time I see Sandor, and I wasted it talking to Joffrey_. She longs to kiss him, hold him close to her and tell him she loves him, that she eagerly will await his return. Now all she can do is pray for him.

"Joffrey will," She answers sadly, "The worse ones always live."

Shae notices Sansa's despondent look and realizes the young maiden fears for Sandor, just as she fears for Tyrion. "Shhh. Come, my Lady" Shae murmurs, taking Sansa's hand and leading her to Maegor's Holdfast.


	4. Inside Maegor's Holdfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unable to listen to Cersei’s ranting any longer, Sansa prays for Sandor. “He is no true knight but he saved me all the same,” she tells the Mother. “Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him. I…I love him, please help him and help us get through this night."

* * *

Inside Maegor's Holdfast the highborn women of King's Landing weep, pray and sing hymns as they cling to one another in fear. Outside the battle rages on while sounds of swords clashing, screams and battering rams assaulting the gates of the city resound inside the Red Keep. Sansa remains close to Shae, both women cautiously watching Cersei get progressively more drunk as the evening wears on.

The Blackwater Bay is now completely alight with wildfire, casting its eerie green glow over the entire castle. Tyrion's ship, heavily weighed down with its payload of stockpiled wildfire, was sent adrift and slowly drained its deadly cargo into the waters of the bay.

As Stannis' forces continued their approach, Tyrion's sellsword Bronn unleashed a a hideous welcome for the enemy fleet when he loosed a flaming arrow on the Blackwater. The night air was pierced by a deafening hiss as it made contact with the wildfire and the result was a massive explosion igniting a tremendous fireball, completely engulfing Stannis' fleet. The subsequent concussive waves violently shook the castle of King's Landing to its foundation, frightening all inside its walls. Sansa was sure after that Stannis would give up and yet still the army came, slowed down but by no means diminished in their bloodlust for the city by the destructive power of the wildfire.

The foot soldiers scurry ashore in waves, eager to plunder King's Landings' daughters and wealth alike, filling the castle with the sounds of horror and death. With each sound, Sansa wonders what is happening to Sandor and if he is still alive.

* * *

Unable to listen to Cersei’s ranting any longer, Sansa prays for Sandor. “He is no true knight but he saved me all the same,” she tells the Mother. “Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him. I…I love him, please help him and help us get through this night."

Afterward, Sansa and Shae sat together in silence, bonded by shared worry for their men. Cersei quickly drains another flagon of Dornish Red and then amuses herself by taunting Sansa and the other highborn ladies, regaling them with the frightening details of what befalls women unfortunate enough to be inside the city when the walls are breached. Ser Ilyn sits nearby, watching Sansa with a emotionless expression that sends a chill through Sansa’s body.

At first the young woman resisted Cersei's insisting that she join her in drinking the wine but as the hours crawl by her fear for Sandor intensifies to an unbearable level. She alone knows the story of how he came to be burned and Sansa cannot imagine anything more horrific for him than a battlefield full of fire. Taking several of the cups offered, the young woman downs them quickly, eagerly welcoming the dullness it brings to her mind.

Meanwhile, Shae strives to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, sitting in a nearby alcove and angrily listening to every word Cersei says to Sansa. Bored with Sansa's tipsy chirping, stands up to announce the real reason for Ser Illyn's presence, bringing a tense unspoken panic to the room. "She is a sadistic bitch," mutters Shae.

She has known that type of woman her whole life, one who does not support other women but rather relishes in making them squirm. Shae hates Cersei for mocking Sansa's innocence and terrorizing the other women during what may be the last moments of their lives. _Her evil son gets it honest,_ she concludes to herself.

Memories of her time spent with Tyrion leave her marveling at the differences in the siblings. Shae decides to provide Cersei with another target, so she moves to a more visible seat and innocently glances at the queen. Smelling fresh meat, Cersei quickly takes the bait and beings interrogating Shae, all but forgetting Sansa.

Lancel storms in, bringing news of the battle and Joffrey and though the women strain to listen neither Sansa and Shae can hear most of what is said between them. Enraged, Cersei grinds her fist into Lancel’s wound before grabbing Tommen and abruptly heading for the throne room.

As the women begin singing, Shae takes Sansa aside and whispers, "You must go! Run to your chamber and bar the door. Stannis won't hurt you but this one will." Nodding to Ser Illyn, Shae waves her off. “Go!”

"Come with me!" Sansa implores, desperately holding on to Shae’s hands.

"I have to say goodbye to someone," Shae whispers. _How foolish of me, she means_ _Tyrion, of course she would stay to see him_ , Sansa realizes, understanding her handmaiden must be terribly frightened for him as well.

Suddenly fear for Shae grips Sansa as she recalls Cersei's words. "The queen said they would rape everyone!"

Shae is deeply touched to know that Sansa fears for her; no highborn woman had ever treated her with such kindness while the highborn men only greedily took what they paid her for. Lifting her skirt, she flashes her leg at Sansa, surprising the young woman by the sight of  a knife strapped low on her leg. " _No one_ is raping me! Go! Run!" Shae orders without a trace of fear in her eyes or voice. Glancing behind her one last time at Shae, Sansa runs toward her room wishing she had a portion of her loyal handmaiden's fearlessness.


	5. The Battle of Blackwater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Tyrion's signal, Bronn lets loose an ignited arrow out over the water, resulting in a tremendous explosion of green fire that violently rocks the castle walls. Gasping, Sandor recoils at the sight of such massive destructive power. A hot wind envelopes them seconds after the blast followed by the screams of Stannis' troops loudly echoing off the hills surrounding the bay.

* * *

Archers line up in formation along the top of the castle walls. Sentries take their positions in the watchtowers and young squires arranged arrows in neat rows on the ground. The infantry soldiers make last minute adjustments to their armor and weapons, drenched in sweat even though a cold driving rain began to fall shortly after the bells tolled. Everyone is waiting, eagerly watching for the first view of Stannis' fleet.

Sandor stands on the battlements of the Red Keep facing Blackwater Bay, wondering to himself if he will be able to find the bloodlust and rage he relies on in battle. In the past he always called on his rage at Gregor but his Little bird has brought out his softer side that he didn't even know exists inside of him. The physical demonstrations of her love fill him with a warm tenderness that he actually enjoys and he is loathe to go back to the dark place in his mind that allows him to become the Hound, a brutal and deadly efficient killer.

A few feet away, Tyrion gazes anxiously out at the black waters, oblivious to Sandor's dark thoughts. His squire Podrick stands at the ready a respectful distance away, trying to stay as far from the Hound as possible.

Dressed for role of the brave king in Battle, Joffrey stands beside his uncle. _He certainly looks the part in his new armor and played it to the hilt in the throne room with Sansa but outside among the soldiers now he only succeeds in looking like a scared little b_ _oy,_ Sandor thinks with a smirk. Standing behind Joffrey is Lancel, Joffrey's cowardly pretty boy cousin who serves as Cersei's current plaything, barely able to contain his palpable fear though as yet nothing has come into view and Sandor shakes his head in disgust at the men.

Sandor and Bronn secretly made a bet before leaving the brothel as to which one-Joffrey or Lancel-would shit himself first at the sight of Stannis' men. Bronn thought Joffrey would since he only acted tough with helpless women but Sandor's money was on Lancel; he didn't have the Hound as his paid personal bodyguard to save him from Stannis. Just the thought of it made him chuckle to himself despite the very unfunny circumstances surrounding him.

Tyrion and Joffrey bicker about the placement of the Baratheon naval fleet and resort to using Sandor and Lancel as interpreters. Sandor normally would have been annoyed as hell but he was too intent on the horizon to give them much thought, eager to see if the reports of Stannis' troop numbers were exaggerated. The wind had picked up sharply, and Sandor knows any minute now the enemy fleet would come into view.

Sandor is not particularly impressed with Stannis or his supposed military prowess and rumors that Stannis' red witch cast a spell that killed Renly rather than face his brother like a man on the battlefield abounded in King's Landing. "Buggering kinslaying coward, and only a fair swordsman," is Sandor's standard response when the other soldiers pressed him for details. Any man who couldn't stand up to his own brother is no man at all in Sandor's opinion.

He doesn't think much more of Tyrion and his wildfire. "Only cowards fight with fire," he told him right to his face when he heard the plan. _Things certainly would have different had_ _Robert still been alive,_ Sandor thinks to himself, listening to the drone of Tyrion and Joffrey's bickering. He respects very few men and certainly only considers a select few to be competition in battle, but he admired Robert's bravery and willingness to take risks. Sandor remembers the sight of Robert astride his great warhorse, charging into battle ahead of his men and shouting his war cries and waving his war hammer at the enemy. _If Robert were here, he would have taken his warhammer and swam out to mee_ _t Stannis,_ Sandor chuckles to himself.

Through the hazy mist of the bay, a massive armada of Stannis' troop materializes into view. From an inlet in Blackwater Bay, Tyrion's lone cargo ship is drifting out to sea, slowly approaching the enemy fleet. When the cargo ship reaches the center of Stannis' fleet, Tyrion drops a lit torch as a signal to Bronn, who is positioned on a tall rock at an outcropping of the bay. On Tyrion's signal, Bronn lets loose an ignited arrow out over the water, resulting in a tremendous explosion of green fire that violently rocks the castle walls.

Gasping, Sandor recoils at the sight of such massive destructive power. A hot wind envelopes them seconds after the blast, taking Sandor's breath away, followed by the screams of Stannis' troops loudly echoing off the hills surrounding the bay.

Sandor seethes with rage at Tyrion and Joffrey and at the pyromancer who concocted the wildfire and hearing the cries of burning men sicken Sandor to his very core. _What right did they have to_ _use such a weapon? How could Tyrion or Joffrey possibly know what it means to be burned or the pain of such intense heat? The helplessness felt when you struggle to scream only to have your lungs filled with smoke and ash, surrounded by the scent of your o_ _wn burning flesh? The horror of it all staying with you the rest of your life becoming the first thing the rest of the world sees when they look at you?_

Sandor understands the trauma of physically wearing the worst thing ever to happen to you on your face every single day. _The burns are only the beginning; enduring a lifetime of stares, pity and people you is the real hell. The septons preach the seven hells, but what did they know? Only a man who had been burned truly knows what hell is._ The last time Sandor could remember having such an abject feeling of hatred for anyone was after Gregor held him in the brazier for playing with his toy soldier.

In the middle of the chaos Stannis' troops begin advancing toward the shore. Sandor's thoughts turn to Sansa at the sight of them, knowing if they breach the wall, the first place they will attack is the Red Keep. By the time Tyrion commands him to defend the Mud Gate, Sandor is relieved to be able to release his pent-up emotions on Stannis' soldiers. The rage he feels against Tyrion and Joffrey coupled with the realization that his Little bird is in serious jeopardy transforms the Hound into an unstoppable fighting machine.

Sandor hacks his way through Stannis' men with little difficulty. Blinded with bloodlust and rage, he barely registers any of the blows struck against him, and none of the soldiers are able to stop his deadly assault. Soon he is covered with blood, sweat pouring into his eyes as he continues to butcher the enemy with frightening agility. When he finally looks up from his enemies he tries focusing on the horizon and Sandor realizes he cannot see well as blood pouring into his eyes from a gash on his head blinds him. Sandor blinks several times and suddenly the sight of what appears to be a moving wall of fire is fast approaching him, the heat shimmering in the cold night air.

Frozen in fear, all of pain Sandor felt as a child when Gregor burned him floods over him in a wave of terror. Once again he smells his own burning flesh and feels the searing agony of the fire on his face as the pressure from Gregor's massive hand on his neck immobilizes him. Sandor is unable to move, unable to protect himself and unable to run away from the fast approaching wall of fire.

Repeating Sansa's name as a prayer, Sandor closes his eyes and braces himself for the impact when suddenly the moving wall of fire collapses at his feet. Stunned, Sandor blinks, straining to see what has happened when Bronn's grinning face comes into view, the sellsword then dropping his bow and arrow and quickly unsheathing his fighting knife before killing two more of Stannis' soldiers.

Sandor pauses, taking in the battle raging around him. Everywhere he turns there is fire, blood, screaming men and dismembered limbs. The dead and dying cover the ground at his feet. More and more troops come on shore but Sandor stands battle fatigued and dazed, hardly able to believe he just survived the wall of fire. _Why am I fighting for the Imp and his inbred bastard of a nephew? I can't stand the sight of either of them; why should I risk my neck? They burned all those men alive-for what? So they can continue living in luxury while the smallfolk starve? Joffrey will continue tormenting Sansa and eventually rape her as his queen..what in seven hells am I even doing here?_

He should be with Sansa, keeping her safe and comforting her instead of out on the battlefield. At the thought of her sweet face, a measure of calm comes over him. _Fuck this mess; I need to find her at once_ , Sandor thinks, staggering away from the front lines. Walking through the Mud Gate entrance, Sandor hears Tyrion calling for the gates to be closed off, leaving the rest of the soldiers to face the fire and invaders with nowhere to retreat. _Fucking Imp, he deserves to be_ _dipped in wildfire and cooked for what he's done tonight._

Brad Lannister limps in beside him as another squire runs up to Sandor and hands him a flask. Sandor drinks deeply, then frowns and spit out the contents. "Fuck the water. Bring me wine." He demands. The squire hands him a different flask which he gulps down several mouthfuls before turning toward the Red Keep. Covered in blood and exhausted, Sandor's demeanor leaves no doubt he wishes to be left alone.

Tyrion watches Sandor's behavior and panics; no one in the entire Baratheon army is as feared as Sandor Clegane excepting his brother Gregor. Tyrion knows if Sandor deserts the battle the rest of the soldiers will flee. A direct order will not work with the Hound so he tries goading him back to action instead. "May I offer you some iced milk and a nice bowl of raspberries too?" Tyrion taunts, staring Sandor in the face and trying to hide his intense fear of the man.

"Eat SHIT dwarf," Sandor immediatley growls in response, daring him to continue. Noticing Joffrey is standing above Tyrion Sandor glares his direction too, and eerie silence surrounding them. Tyrion glances around at his men's reaction to Sandor's response and sees just the sight and sound of him inspires their fear. Sandor keeps on drinking, ignoring them.

"You're on the wrong side of the wall," Tyrion affects an authoritative air.

"I lost half my men. The Blackwater's on fire," Sandor's rasping voice cracks on the last word. Tyrion realizes Sandor is afraid, confirming the rumors he has heard for years about Sandor's scars. The one disaster Tyrion could not have foreseen has happened; Sandor Clegane has been broken by the trauma of facing the wildfire in battle.

"Dog, I command you to go back out there and fight!" Joffrey screams, pointing to the gate and Tyrion knows it is over then and there. Sandor shakes his head slowly, summoning what little is left of his strength to fight the urge to gut Tyrion, climb over his body and slit Joffrey's throat. Recognizing the danger, the soldiers moved away from him as Sandor struggles to still his rage.

Knowing the Clegane loyalty to his family is legendary and a source of personal pride to them, Tyrion uses another approach to rally Sandor back to the battle. "You are Kingsguard, Clegane. You must beat them back or they are going to take this city-your _King's_ city," he reminds him, silently implying the dire consequences Sandor faces if he deserts. Tyrion barely contains his anxiety over the situation, watching the soldiers all pause their battle preparations to see what the Hound will do next.

Sandor cannot believe Tyrion believes his family could possibly feel an obligation to the Lannisters any longer; yet after all he has done in their service over the years, they still demand more. This is the last straw for the beleaguered man, who raises his eyes and glares with them with complete hatred

"Fuck the city. Fuck the Kingsguard," Sandor pauses and turns to Joffrey's surprised face. "Fuck the King!" He enunciates menacingly, staring Joffrey straight in the eye and Sandor is satisfied to see Joffrey looks as though he is about to cry. Tyrion, Joffrey, the Kingsguard as well as the soldiers all continue to watch him in stunned silence as he turns his back to them once and for all, hurrying on his way to find Sansa.


	6. In Sansa's Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa desperately wants to go home but realizes that accompanying the Hound puts him in grave danger. No doubt both Joffrey and Stannis will put a huge bounty on them both, and not even Sandor can fend off the scum that would follow them indefinitely. She cannot bear the knowledge that her words will deeply hurt him; her heart breaks as she whispers, "I'll be safe here. Stannis won't hurt me."

* * *

Sandor walks past the sentries of the Red Keep drinking from the flask the squire handed him. Neither of the soldiers bother him nor even dare raise their eyes as he passes. It is a good thing, too, for Sandor is in no mood to be bothered and would just as soon kill them as look at them.

Draining the last of the wine, he tosses the wineskin aside. Spotting another guard in the alcove of the stairway that leads to Sansa's room; Sandor draws his katar and creeps closer, quiet as a cat. He can't make out the guard's face in the shadows but recognizes the familiar sound of a seal being broken on a new wineskin. Smiling slightly to himself, Sandor walks over to the guard and without a word snatches it from his hands. Putting his katar back in its sheath, he takes several long pulls on the jug and then continues on his way to Sansa, not even bothering looking over his shoulder to see if he is being followed.

Despite his drunken stupor, Sandor's heart begins to pound as the door to Sansa's bedchamber comes into sight. Hurrying along much faster now, he is anxious to see how the little bird fared inside Maegor's Holdfast. Lancel said that Cersei was drunk so he is sure the experience was unpleasant for the young woman, knowing all the training her septa gave her couldn't prepare her for that experience.

Sandor jiggles the handle and notices right away that her door is unlocked. Puzzled, Sandor draws his short sword out and slowly turns the knob as fear snakes through him, chilling him to the bone. _Has she run off and left it open in her haste? Has someone already been here and taken the little bird?_   Scanning the room carefully, he searches for clues. Everything seems to be in order and the room doesn't show any signs of forcible entry or a struggle. The linens on the bed are undisturbed and a candle is lit in the birdcage holder he secretly gave her as a nameday present.

Satisfied nothing sinister happened, Sandor finally allows himself to relax. The copious amount of wine he consumed paired with his exhausted emotional and physical state engulfs him in the Little bird's warm and inviting room. Lying back on her bed, Sandor stretches out, enjoying the feminine scent that permeates the room.

Closing his eyes, the fatigued man replays the memory of her in bed three days ago with her loose hair falling down her back. She looked flawless with her bed gown falling off her shoulders and her creamy skin prettily contrasting with her lovely dark red hair. Thinking back to the day of her flowering, Sandor remembers the feel his arm around her tiny waist, reminding him how good it felt to pull her close and hold her tiny hand in his. Best of all was the sweet smile the little bird gave him, her cheeks blushing as she shyly looked up at him. _She is so perfect and beautiful,_ Sandor sighs before quickly falling into a sound sleep.

* * *

Ser Ilyn Payne glares at Sansa, his icy expression sending a shiver up her spine as she escapes Maegor's Holdfast. Outside death surrounds the castle and the men bled while inside Cersei preyed on the weak and Sansa is the one who bleeds, the betrayal of her body signifying life is about to take a terrible turn for the worse.

Racing down the castle corridor leading to the throne room, Sansa briefly stops to pick up a forgotten wineskin sitting on the iron grate of a smoldering brazier. Taking a long sip, she suddenly chokes at the burning sensation in her throat. Sansa longs for relief, to feel nothing and be consumed by emptiness. Dizziness briefly overcomes her but after a few moments she steadies herself and hurriedly continues up the stairs leading back to her room.

When she reaches her bedroom she rushes inside, slamming the large oak door loudly in her haste. Reaching up Sansa bolts the heavy iron locks shut and then leans against it, sighing in relief. Sansa hears the screams of the men fighting outside the castle walls, the noise filling her with a sickening dread as she desperately tries to slow her breathing.

Picking up her lamp, she sets it on her dresser and catches sight of the doll Ned gave her when they first arrived in King's Landing. _How did it get left out here?_   Sansa wonders, reaching to pick it up. _When was I the lighthearted girl who played with dolls?_ It has been so long since she did anything out of sheer enjoyment she can hardly remember it.

Squeezing the doll close to her breast, Sansa smiles to herself as she tries to remember who she used to be before Joffrey and Kings Landing. _What kind of girl was I before Joffrey executed Father and Robb waged war against the Baratheons and Lannisters?_

Sansa contemplates the question for a moment before suddenly realizing she already knows the answer; in fact, she has carried it inside her heart all along. She is a wolf, the third-born of the pack: Sansa Stark, born to Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, whose bloodline traces clear back to the kings of winter. She is sister to Bran, Rickon, Arya and Robb, and half-sister to Jon Snow.

In Winterfell she was happy and carefree and also a bit of a brat if she is honest with herself. Her septa taught her to sew and do needlepoint. She was a lady but also fought with Arya and brushed her beloved direwolf Lady at every opportunity.

She is the girl who sneaked lemoncakes from the kitchen and spent her days worshipping in the godswood or playing under the heart tree with her friend Jeyne. She spent her nights huddled under the covers with her sister whispering scary stories and dreaming of the knight who would save her from her enemies that she would someday marry.

First and foremost she is a true child of the north, raised in Winterfell, taught to remember above all things that winter is coming. Clutching her beloved doll to her chest, Sansa cherishes what it now represents to her: her true self, not the girl who chirps courtesies on command for the Lannisters. Abruptly she is brought out of her reverie by a distinctly masculine smell in her room that fills Sansa with fear as she slowly turns around to face the intruder on her bed.

"The lady starting to panic?" Sandor asks, trying to make his tone light. The wine and warmth of the room suddenly makes her light-headed once again, and Sansa leans against the dresser to steady herself.

Initially the sound of his voice brings a wave of relief but after looking into his drunken, sullen eyes her heart is overwhelmed with trepidation. Sandor Clegane left for battle but the kinder side of the man that Sansa knows so well seems to have all but disappeared. _It is as though Sandor Clegane died on the battlefield, only to be brought back to life in the most frightening incarnation of the Hound imaginable._ Sitting at on the foot of her bed, he is covered in sweat with dried blood crusting the burned side of his face. His armor is charred and dented and his white Kingsguard cloak is stained with soot, wine, sweat and blood.

He is more drunk than she has ever seen him and most frightening of all are his eyes: gleaming with rage, they appear almost charcoal, the darkest she has ever seen them. Her beloved Sandor has vanished and all Sansa sees now is the Hound gazing at her.

"What are you doing here?" She asks abruptly, trembling with fear. Stomach-turning anxiety fills her stomach, threatening to make her sick.

At once Sandor recognizes how afraid she is, for his beautiful little bird's face is now a mask of panic. Turning away from her, Sandor hopes she will be assured of her safety if she no longer can see the bloodlust on his face.

"Not here for long. I'm going," he answers dully, struggling to gain control of his demeanor.

"Where?" Sansa demands as soon as his words leave his mouth, her voice betraying the panic she feels hearing them.

 _What does he mean he is going? Where would he go? Is he planning on leaving me here in King's Landing alone? Doesn't he care for me anymore? Is this goodbye?_   Sansa's mind races with questions but the wine she drank earlier makes thinking difficult. In her desperation, Sansa cannot will herself to imagine the unimaginable, that he would leave her in the lion's den.

"Someplace that...isn't burning," Sandor softly says as he looks out at the Blackwater.

 _His fear of fire_ , Sansa realizes sadly, finally understanding him. _Being out there with the battlefield on fire has broken his spirit._ She remembers Littlefinger's story and even being aware of what happened she feels no one could possibly understand the extent of his fear of fire.

Watching her closely, Sandor continues. "North might be," he pauses, "Could be." His voice takes on a hopeful tone as he speaks and he turns to look at her once again, seeking to read her expression.

For a brief moment Sansa wonders wildly whether Joffrey has sent him to get her. "What about the King?"

"He can die just fine on his own," Sandor answers, his voice dripping with sarcasm. She is such a child. Sighing deeply, the beleaguered man drinks another swig of wine slowly. _Does she really believe I'm still serving Joffrey when I'm here sitting on her bed while the city is under siege?_

 _Be patient, dog; just tell her you want her to go with you,_ he reminds himself. "I could take you with me, take you to Winterfell. I'll keep you safe." Sandor says, slowly rising to his feet. "Do you want to go home?" He asks, tenderly turning to her all the while his heart silently asks, _Do you want to go with me? Do you want to be with me at Winterfell with the rest of your family and live as husband and wife?_  His whole future lies in her hands, and he fears he could be shattered or made whole in just moments, with just a few words from Sansa's lips. Holding his breath, Sandor anxiously waits for her reply.

Sansa desperately wants to go home but realizes that accompanying the Hound puts him in grave danger. No doubt both Joffrey and Stannis will put a huge bounty on them both, and not even Sandor can fend off the scum that would follow them indefinitely. She cannot bear the knowledge that her words will deeply hurt him and her heart breaks as she whispers, "I'll be safe here. Stannis won't hurt me."

 _And if you leave without me, no one will try to hurt you. I could keep you safe for once, my love,_ Sansa silently adds miserably, gazing at her feet to hide her emotions, her tears spilling over her cheeks. While she waits for his reaction, Sansa fixes her gaze on the floor to hide her emotional state.

"LOOK at me!" Sandor growls while yanking her toward him, the Hound overtaking his tone and behavior in his dejection. Surprised, Sansa begins shaking in fear; he has never spoken to her in this way. Wincing, she slowly raises her eyes to meet his gaze. When Sandor sees her tears and the anguish in her eyes, he lowers his voice and quickly changes the tone of his words.

"Stannis is a killer. The Lannisters are killers," he speaks deliberately. More gently, he adds, "Your father was a killer; your brother is a killer." Pausing, he looks her over sadly before saying,"Your sons will be killers."

 _If things were different, one day we might have had children; what of our sons, yours and mine? Must they be killers as well?_   Sansa bitterly asks herself silently as Sandor continues, "The world is run by killers, so you'd better get used to looking at them." Sandor feels the room sway; his outpouring of emotion intensifying the effects of the wine as he staggers toward her.

Willing herself to overcome her fear, Sansa gazes deep into Sandor's eyes and for the first time he allows her to see the real man deep in his soul. There is no trace of the Hound; the expression in his eyes is full of love for her. Sansa sees he loves her so desperately he risked his life to come back to her, just to see her face one last time.

She recognizes he only wants her with by his side, to protect her and keep her safe. _He is not the Hound; he is a man of contradiction. Sandor is powerful as well as broken; a man capable of both great tenderness as well as merciless violence when protecting those he loves. He is eager for me to love him and he passionately loves me in return. No matter what he says, how he sounds or acts, he would never hurt me._ Finally Sansa is able to see his love is so deep for her that he is incapable of causing her harm and the startling revelation powerfully affects the young woman.

At the sound of a soft knock both of them jump in surprise. Sandor hides behind the door with his sword drawn and wordlessly motions for Sansa to open it. It is Shae, carrying a satchel. Stepping inside she casts a quick look at Sandor. "My lady, I am on my way to say goodbye to a...friend. I wanted to see if you required anything else before I set out."

Sansa looks around the room. "No, not that I can think of, Shae. Thank you."

Shae nods to the bathing room. "Why don't you have a look at your supplies? Forgive me, of course I would normally do such, but after the events of the past week I wouldn't presume to look upon your personal items, my lady." Sansa nods in agreement and leaves the room.

"You're scaring her half to death!" Shae hisses at Sandor as soon as Sansa is out of sight.

"How did you know I would be here, girl?" Sandor asks, folding his arms.

"I know what you want. You want her to go with you, and I am glad of it. Everyone is talking of your desertion. I think we both realize you can't stay here after that."

Sandor nods casually, "Aye; what of it?"

"I think you also know that I care for Sansa very much. No highborn has ever been so good to me," Shae whispers, and Sandor nods in agreement.

"I doubt I will ever know another that will treat me half so well. Now listen, you must get her to see that leaving with you is best. But for God's sake, you can't expect her to take you up on the offer when you're growling at her and reeking of wine. I could hear you halfway down the hall. Look at you-you're covered with blood and the god knows what else! She's a delicate child. She'll return soon, and I want a moment to talk to her alone. So please take that chance to wash yourself up a bit for her sake, and try and sober up so she will agree to go with you!"

Sandor is shocked; no woman, let alone a servant and a whore, has ever spoken to him this way. Throwing back his head, he barks out a long laugh. "Aye, you have that right of it."

When Sansa returns Sandor heads toward the bathroom and Sansa gives both of them a puzzled look. "I brought you this, my lady," Shae says, handing Sansa the satchel. "I set these aside in case the day came for you to need them-don't open it, please, until you are finished speaking with the Hound. Remember I will always appreciate your kindness toward me."

Sandor comes back into the room quietly, drying his hands on a towel. Sansa notices he washed up, his face and hair now clean and damp, smelling of her soap. Turning to Sandor, Shae pats her lower leg where her skirts conceals her dagger and says, "And thank you, my lord, for this."

Sandor grunts his reply to her and sits back on the bed. Their shared love for Sansa and desire to keep her safe has created and unexpected kinship between them and the man gave her the knife, wanting Shae to be able to take care of herself should Stannis' men get inside the Red Keep.

Sansa's eyes fill with tears. "And I will not forget your loyal service to me. You will always have a place in my home, and at my table. I swear it." Shae nods her thanks and then quickly embraces Sansa before hastily leaving the room.

Sandor searches Sansa's eyes for clues to her thoughts; a part of him needs to know her feelings before he leaves. Sansa's whole face changes as she gazed up at him, amazed by the depth of feeling revealed in his eyes. "You won't hurt me," she says softly, needing him to understand that after this night she could never again be made to fear him again.

"No, Little bird, I won't hurt you," he replies, a mild sarcasm seeping into his voice. _Did she only just now realize I would never hurt her-after all I've done to protect her? She is still such a child,_ he thinks for the second time that evening sadly. Miserable and more lonely that he has ever felt, Sandor now believes he has her answer and so the man turns toward the door.

As he reaches up to unlock it, Sansa understands he means to leave her and cries out, "No, please, Sandor, don't leave me here. I don't want to live without you! I cannot survive without you; I need you."

Still the scared little bird, thinks Sandor, bitterly refusing to look at her as he opens the door. She's had a lot of wine, too, I can smell it on her. She won't remember any of this tomorrow.

"Wait! Please! What can I do to make you see that I need you…that I love you? I want to be with you; I need you in my life, please!" Sansa reaches out and grabs his arm, and Sandor allows her to pull him back into the room. Shutting and locking the door with a sigh, he wonders what she will say next.

As he turns to face her, Sansa quickly shrugs her gown off her shoulders, revealing her bare body to the waist. She isn't wearing a shift, and Sandor hungrily drinks in the sight of her. Sansa sees the shock on his face and the fearsome Hound now seems scared to move at the sight of her nakedness. Swaying slightly, Sansa steps toward him.

"No, Little bird, don't do that; for fuck's sake you don't need to-" he starts to say, but Sansa raises a finger to his lips, quieting him.

"Shh it's all right. I want this; I want this with you," she whispers, taking one of his hands and placing in on her breast. Sandor allows his eyes to slowly move from her face down over her body and back to her face again.

Her eyes turned deep sapphire blue with desire for him, and as much temptation as she presents in his drunken state he is powerless to refuse her. Sitting down on the bed, he pulls her close in his arms. "Sansa, are you sure? Are you very sure? Think on it now."

"Yes; why must you refuse to believe that I love you? That I desire you and wish to belong to you?" Sansa whispers, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Tenderly he bends to kiss her lips and Sansa eagerly responds, moaning as he slides his tongue into her mouth.

Stepping back, he sits on the bed, now on eye level with her beautiful form. Gently he caresses each breast in his hands and slowly runs his tongue over each nipple, savoring the taste of her perfect skin, sucking lightly before kissing each one softly.

Overwhelmed by his touch, Sansa allows her head drop backed and moaned softly, her body responding to him. Drawing his head closer, her hands grasp his hair and Sansa experiences a rush of heat and wetness to her woman's place.

Sandor nuzzles between her breasts and sighs deeply, his heart so full of love he can hardly breathe. He could spend his entire life worshipping her body. Completely enthralled by the feel and taste of her, Sandor tenderly kisses her and his Little bird begins to sing so prettily in her passionate moans for him. She intoxicates him with her touch and beauty, her naked body better in reality than anything he could have imagined in his most fevered dreams.

"Sweet Sansa, my sweet Little bird," he murmurs against her skin as he caresses her hips, gently kissing his way to her stomach as Sansa arches toward him. The warmth of her soft skin paired with the lovely sight of her bare body sends his heart and body higher than he thought possible. "I want this with you too...seven hells, more than you could possibly imagine." In the back of his mind Sandor knows her newfound daring with him is at least due in part to the wine he tastes on her lips.

Taking a deep breath again, Sandor struggles to muster his self-control. "But Little bird, not like this; not here in the damned Red Keep during a battle with fire everywhere. I don't want the memory of our first time together to be connected in any way to bloody King's Landing. I want us to completely forget this place ever existed. Come with me, Sansa," he rasps quietly. "We'll have plenty of time for this...I want to make you my wife. I want to have this with you forever," Sandor whispers hoarsely, pulling her down on his lap and kissing her passionately.

Tears of happiness stream down Sansa's cheeks and she eagerly returns his kisses with all the love she feels for him, finally able to convey her emotions with actions as her words fail her. She caresses his cheeks and his jawline before running her fingers through his hair, all the while whispering words of love to him.

Standing before him with her exquisite body bared willingly, Sansa is even more beautiful and delicious than Sandor dreamed she would be and despite his best intentions, it is all the man can do to resist taking her then and there. Overwhelmed with desire for her, his laces tighten against his painfully hard manhood and Sandor fears it will take very little encouragement for him to spill his seed. Gently he lifts her to her feet, his arms still around her, knowing he needs to act quickly before his body gets the better of him.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Sandor stands up and says, helping her re-wrap her gown. Kissing him softly one last time she nods and submits to his attentions. When she is dressed, she opens Shae's satchel as Sandor fastens her belt.

Inside she finds four plain dresses in her size, a basic black cloak, four sets of small clothes and riding boots, her robe and house gown, a hair brush, and a large jar of herbal tea Sansa does not recognize. Emptying her jewelry box into the bag, Sansa also places a yellow silk cloth she made for Sandor inside before removing the note Shae left her.

 _"I hope you find happiness in your freedom, sweetling,"_   Sansa reads aloud, her tears flowing anew as she tucks her precious doll inside. Silently she thanks the old gods and the new for giving her Shae's friendship and Sandor's love.

They comforted her in her darkest hours, helped her endure her time in captivity and gave her the strength to continue onward. Sansa feels truly blessed as she looks at Sandor and both of them take a moment to glance around the room. Frowning, Sandor rip off his Kingsguard cloak, throws it on the floor and spits on it contemptuously.

Taking Sansa by the hand, he leads her out the door and for the first time in recent memory, Sandor finds himself looking forward to their future, free, happy and together at long last.


	7. The Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a character verbally express the intent to rape but please be aware no one is in peril. I have included an asterisk (*) next to the paragraph so you can skip it if you like and still read the rest of the chapter. :D

Sandor and Sansa start at the sound of footsteps; someone in heavy armor is quickly approaching them. Yanking Sansa into an alcove, he whispers in her ear, "Stay hidden in the stairwell and don't come out no matter what happens; do you understand?" She nods and ducks back out of sight.

Sandor continues walking at a leisurely pace, one hand on the hilt of his sword as he eagerly scans the hallway in front of him. Ser Meryn turns the corner abruptly, staggering a bit as he lurches forward, struggling for balance. When he catches sight of Sandor, he laughs contemptuously.

"Well, well, well! If it isn't the craven Clegane?" He smirks. "I thought Joff's dog would be far away from here by now with his tail tucked between his legs..." Meryn laughs at his own joke and takes a long swig from his wineskin. Sandor's mouth begins twitching with rage but he manages a smile, only adding to his fearsome appearance. "Craven yourself. What brings you to this part of the Red Keep during battle, Toad?"

"Battle? Oh, yes the battle's over...Tywin came in from behind with the Flower's Knight and routed Stannis' troops." Sandor nods, his face expressionless. "We won, not before the Imp took a gash to the face though. He looked so funny with his face slit in half...his whore's treating him as we speak..." Meryn slaps his knee.

"Hmph," Sandor grumbles while flexing his grip on his sword; Meryn takes no notice, too intent on his wine. "Speaking of whores…my blood's still up from the battle. Nothing like a woman after a fight, am I right, Clegane?" Meryn slaps Sandor on the back.

 ***** "Joff's sweet thing is just at the end of the hall; might need to get me a piece of that...she's like a piece of cake ready to be eaten," He licks his lips as he forms a plan. "She's as sweet as honey that one, got a nice feel of her tits when I ripped her clothes off her...yeah, she'll do nicely," Meryn slurs, rubbing the front of his breeches several times at the thought.

The Hound's bloodlust rises at hearing Meryn's words; _Ser Meryn, just another knight supposed to protect the weak but nothing more than a cowardly rapist dressed in fancy clothes. Just like Gregor._.. Sandor begins shaking with rage but averts his eyes as he speaks, carefully concealing the Hound from Meryn.

Watching Sandor he says, "Looks like you could use a woman, too, Clegane; someone to take the edge off the battle. Come with me; you've earned your share of her I dare say, putting up with Joff's shit every day! I bet you've had plenty of peeks at that delicious body of hers and from what I've seen there's plenty of that for both of us to enjoy! What say you?"

 _Drunken bastard, I'll spill your guts for this,_ Sandor seethes inwardly, drawing his mouth into a tight smile. "Aye, alright...let's just see if I can get that sweet Little bird to sing for me, too," Sandor rasps in his best imitation of Gregor.

Even the formation of the words in his mouth sickens him but Meryn needs to believe he is willing in order to gain his trust. "There's a good man!" Laughs Meryn, slapping Sandor on the back once more.

Taking the wineskin from him, Sandor drinks deeply to avoid looking at him as they approach Sansa's room. The image of her suddenly comes into his mind and Sandor pictures her as she had been only moments before: her lovely deep blue eyes...her body trembling and flushed with desire, smiling shyly as she looked up at him while he tied her dress for her...and Sandor clenches his jaw as black rage boils his blood, threatening to spill over him like a tidal wave. _Just a few steps more inside_ , Sandor repeats to calm himself.

Ser Meryn bangs open Sansa's door and looks around, surprise and disappointment etching his face. "Come here, Little Dove," he calls, "I'm here to bring you to the queen," He giggles and looks back at Sandor, his index finger pressed to his lips for Sandor to keep quiet. When there is no answer he tiptoes over to the bathroom and peeks inside.

Sandor moves over to the balcony window and slides it open, then goes to the bathroom door and whispers, "She's hiding on the balcony. I can see her dress from inside."

Meryn smiles and nods. "She's mine first, Clegane; this is my idea, so my claim to her sweet maidenhead comes first-then you," Meryn pokes Sandor's chest for emphasis. Gritting his teeth, he nods and follows the drunken knight to the balcony where Meryn stops just short of the window.

Bringing his foot crashing down sideways agaist Meryn's calf, Sandor shatters his leg with a loud crack. Meryn falls forward and opens his mouth to scream and Sandor reaches in and grabs hold of his tongue. Turning to face him with an evil grin, Sandor pulls his katar and slices off his tongue with one deft move.

"Felt her tits as you ripped off her clothes, did you? Thought you'd get a piece of that _sweet thing_? You sick buggering bastard, you're going to pay for those words with your life!" Sandor snarls, his voice hoarse with rage.

Blood pours from Meryn's mouth as he tries to speak filling the room with the noise of him gasping and choking, unable to form words. Sandor drags Meryn out onto the balcony.

"I won't give you the mercy of a quick death; piss on that. Get a good look at what awaits you below," Sandor growls, forcing him to look below as the wildfire of Blackwater Bay illuminates the moat filled with feeding crocodiles.

Meryn scrambles helplessly beneath him. "Before you die, you're going to know what it feels like to be preyed on and helpless to stop it!" Sandor hisses in his face before plunging him over the balcony and into the moat where the crocodiles eagerly await him.

Panting, Sandor struggles to calm himself; Meryn's words left him blinded by rage. He cannot help but think what would have happened to Sansa if he hadn't come for her...he shakes his head to clear his mind of the very thought. Noticing Meryn's blood trailing from his body to the balcony and up over the barrier gives Sandor an idea.

Removing one of Sansa's gowns out of her closet, Sandor rips it in two and then drags it through the pool of blood before throwing it over the edge of the balcony and down into the moat. Sandor watches the gown land on top of the water as the crocodiles quickly swim over to sniff it.

 _Now anyone who finds Meryn's remains and armor will also find Sansa's dress and assume they went over the balcony together,_ Sandor nods his head in satisfaction. Quickly he exits the room and hurries back to the alcove where Sansa is hiding; she is nowhere to be found. Sandor clears his throat and waits, searching around the alcove. _Glad she took me seriously about hiding_ , thinks Sandor, when suddenly he is struck with the full weight of Sansa jumping into his arms and pulling him close to her.

"You're alright now Little Bird, everything's alright, I've got you," he rasps softly, burying his face in her hair. _Mustn't scare her,_ he reminds himself as Sansa holds his face in her hands and kisses him tenderly.

Recognizing the rage glinting in Sandor's eyes, she quickly glanced down at his blood stained hands. "Is this your blood? Are you hurt, my love?" She asks shakily while looking up at him, her eyes full of alarm.

"No, no, Sansa, I'm fine, I'm _fine,_ Little bird," he repeats to her as she closely examines both sides of his hands for injury.

Satisfied, Sansa sighs. "Thank the gods for that," she says, pulling him close once more and lightly kissing the burnt side of his face.

"Aren't you afraid of me now, Little bird? Knowing what I've just done and seeing the evidence all over my hands?" He jests, trying to keep the tone of their conversation light.

Taking his face in both hands, Sansa tenderly strokes both sides of his face before drawing his head down to hers. "After this night, I could never be made to fear you again my love," she whispers against his lips, covering his mouth with hers in a deep kiss, thrilling him by saying those words to him twice in the same evening.

"We'll never get out of this damn place if this is what I have to look forward to every time I kill someone," Sandor laughs as he looks down at her; and she too laughs in spite of herself as they resume their hasty retreat out of the castle.

Hurriedly the couple makes their way out of the castle doors facing the stables. Sandor dips his hands into one of the horse troughs and rinses them off while digging the dried blood out from under his nails.

Sansa quickly plates her long hair and wraps it in a bun before securing it with a pin and pulling the hood of her cloak over her head. Sandor watches her and nods approvingly as he saddles Stranger.

When he finishes with Stranger he then bridles a second large black and white courser and straps his armor, extra water, weapons and two sleeping rolls on the animal with care. Leading them both out of the stables, he hands Sansa the reigns of the second horse.

"Do you mean for me to ride this one?" she asks, staring at the large black and white warhorse with fear.

"Eventually, yes; Maiden's a mare and nowhere near as mean as Stranger here, but she'll kick the shit out of anyone that approaches you. I use her to carry my supplies into battle or when I travel."

"Oh yes, I remember you had her with you when you came to Winterfell," she says as she gently strokes the mare's velvety nose. "Must you give all your animals blasphemous names?" Sansa teases, raising her eyebrow at him.

"The way you stared at Joff, I'm surprised you noticed anything else that day," he frowns, but Sansa hears his teasing tone and so she smiles at him. "You'll ride behind me until we're out of the city, so hold on tight but make sure my arms are free. We may have to fight our way out." Sansa nods at his words. "Hide your face and hair and if we get into a scuffle, just hang on tighter and close your eyes. Once we're outside the city I'll move you in front of me on the saddle".

Picking her up by the waist, he gently sets her on Stranger's back and then quickly climbs up in front of her. Sansa pulls her hood and cloak tightly around her and wraps her arms around Sandor's waist.

Stranger paws and snorts in anticipation before Sandor lightly kicks his sides, urging the horse toward the city gates at full speed with Maiden following a pace behind.

As they approach the gates, Sandor notices the sentries have been celebrating their victory. Two guards slowy advance on either side of them, causing Stranger to snort and rear ferociously while Maiden knickers at Stranger's agitation. "Never approach a warhorse like that unless you want your head kicked off your shoulders, stupid buggering bastards!" Sandor swears at them, shaking his head in disgust.

"Queen Cersei has ordered the gates remain closed," the first guard nervously replies.

"No shit," curses Sandor. "I'm a member of the Kingsguard in case you forgot. You greenboys have anything to tell me that I don't already know?" The guards glanced at each other worriedly and then over at the dark figure sitting behind him. Sansa holds on to Sandor tighter, squeezing her eyes shut and burying her face into his back as the men look her over.

He recognizes both guards and he knows they are well aware he spends his off-hours drinking in Littlefinger's brothels. "Fuck the both of you; I don't normally explain myself but since you're both look ready to piss yourselves and I'm full of good wine, I'll humor you. I'm on my way to Littlefinger's establishments to celebrate proper; you got a problem with that?" Sandor rasps at them menacingly.

"What about the...person behind you?" The second guard asks, his voice barely above a whisper with fear. Sandor lets out a frightening laugh. "This _young lady_ here is just a warm-up for me before I get to Littlefinger's place. It's been awhile; I don't want to shoot my load before those whores earn their coin." The guards laughed at this but Sansa knows it is folly, feeling Sandor's muscles tense up as he speaks.

 _Please, just let us go,_ Sansa pleads silently. _Sandor won't take much more trifling from you._ Suddenly Stranger jerks up, rearing so fast Sansa almost falls off. And his hooves come down with a loud crunch on the first guard while Sandor easily dispatched the second without even shifting in the saddle.

"I guess Stranger had enough of them about the same time I did," he smirks as he turns to her. Shaking uncontrollably, Sansa slowly nods and gingerly looks around. "Did you have to kill them? They didn't look much older than me," she begins when Sandor interrupts her by turning around and grabbing her chin, forcing her to look at him.

"Look at me! Let's get one thing straight, Sansa: I don't need you or anyone else telling me who or when to kill. I was plenty dangerous at their age, damn it! My brother Gregor bashed Aegon Targaryen against a wall before raping and killing his mother at their age, so spare me your 'they're so young' excuse. These men didn't have pity on your father or your septa; they laughed when Joff had your clothes torn off, made filthy comments about you, too, when no one could hear them. You're wasting your pity on those who have none!"

Sansa squeezes Sandor tight and says, "You're so right, I know. Forgive me, Sandor, I shouldn't have questioned you...you promised to get me out of this city and you have...I trust you completely, you must believe me. I'm just a stupid bird I know..." she whispers sadly, looking down as her tears fall.

Sandor's anger slowly dissipates as he looks at her; it is a lot to take in, all the killing and violence, especially for a young woman who led a safe, comfortable life up until a year ago. Lifting her to sit in front of him, Sandor draws her close in his arms.

"Don't break your heart over it, girl. You're not stupid; you just insist on still trying to find the good in others...it's a dangerous thing to do. The world is not like that, I thought understood that now. Sansa, you must trust me if we are to get through this, alright, Little bird?" He turns her face up to him, lifting her chin so she will meet his gaze.

"I will, I promise Sandor," she sniffs, wiping her eyes, the sight of her tears making him feel like the lowest bastard imaginable. Nodding, he kisses first her nose and then her lips and with a sharp tug at Stranger's reigns, Sandor and Sansa leave King's Landing behind them once and for all.

 


	8. Leaving King's Landing Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resting against Sandor's powerful chest and stomach, Sansa feels his equally strong thighs anchoring her securely in the saddle while his heavily muscled arms cradle her body close in a warm embrace. She luxuriates in the feeling of being surrounded by him and Sansa cannot remember when she last felt so comfortable and safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been completely rewritten as of 4/4/13

* * *

The full moon shines brightly, casting a hauntingly beautiful shadow over the Kingswood. Sandor keeps Stranger at a full gallop as they travel through the forest heading north toward the Riverlands most of the night.

The green fires illuminating Blackwater Bay fades behind them and soon the eerie green light disappears entirely from view. The storm clouds that opened earlier over King's Landing dissipate, imparting a crisp chill in the air as they continue their advance northward.

Sandor and Sansa mostly ride in silence, neither acknowledging the gruesome scene surrounding them as they traverse the Kingsroad. Everywhere Tywin Lannister's soldiers have left their mark; from the trail of bodies it seems they punished anyone deemed disloyal in their wake. Burned out homesteads pour smoke into the night sky in the distance and wagons litter the sides of the road, long since pillaged of their meager provisions. The stench of decaying bodies permeates the air; animals, women, children, and men, the young and old lay strewn about together along the way.

Divided by rank, birth, class, and privilege in life, the farmers and fishwives, soldiers and lords, whores and ladies alike littering the area have achieved a morbid equality in the common graveside along the Kingsroad over the past several days.

Sandor is not sure he believes in the gods; one of many consequences of being burned at a young age. However, looking around him, he remembers Syrio Forel, the Braavosi dancing master at King's Landing, who would always say: "There is only one god and his name is death." _If there is a god of death, he certainly reaped a rich bounty here,_ Sandor muses as he grimly surveys the area.

Glancing at Sansa nestled securely in his arms, he observes her quietly taking it all in without even shedding a tear. Her lack of a more visceral response worries him and he hopes she isn't retreating into the dark place she used to escape in King's Landing. Many times he watched as she mentally left the brutality of King's Landing to endure Joffrey's cruelty, her physical body left as an empty shell in her stead.

Comfortingly he tightens his grip on her waist and rubs her stomach soothingly; Sansa turns and smiles up at him, laying her small hand over his. The traveling is hard on her, he knows; highborn maidens don't spend hours on horseback and he is certain her body feels the effects. She appears exhausted but has not so much as uttered one word of complaint or even asked when they would stop. _Hang in there Little bird, just a little while longer..._

Sandor feels her fear in the stiffness of her body, reminding him of the way she felt as he carried her to safety after the riots. It breaks his heart and he is determined to bring her out of it in the way he wished he was free to do then. Leaning down, he tenderly places his lips on her neck, running his tongue in a small circle before kissing her lightly. Sansa gasps softly in surprise and then reaches up and caresses his cheek with a smile. "We're almost through the worst of it," he rasps softly in her ear. She nods and closes her eyes, snuggling against his chest and despite her discomfort she quickly falls fast asleep.

* * *

Sansa does not want to think about the scene surrounding her; she long ago learned the skill of looking without actually seeing and so she instead focuses her mind on something more pleasant to while away the hours of travel that lay before them. Closing her eyes, she leans into his body, relishing the feel of his muscular arms around her waist.

Resting against Sandor's powerful chest and stomach, Sansa feels his equally strong thighs anchoring her securely in the saddle while his heavily muscled arms cradle her body close in a warm embrace. She luxuriates in the feeling of being surrounded by him and Sansa cannot remember when she last felt so comfortable and safe.

Her mind drifts back to the first time she felt Sandor's touch; it was not long after her family began the journey south on the Kingsroad with King Robert's retinue. They set up camp for the evening and Sansa longed for fresh air and exercise after spending the day cooped up in the caravan with the rest of the highborn ladies. She begged permission from her mother to take a walk alone-anything just to be outside for a while and have time to herself. Her mother warily agreed on the condition that she take Lady with her for protection.

Eagerly she tied Lady's leash on and dashed outside, happily taking in the busy goings-on of the encampment. The soldiers were drinking and gambling and the air was full of their raucous laughter. Servants judiciously prepared colorful booths for the higher ranking officers' accommodations while open fire pits scented the air with the delicious aromas of roasting wild boar and venison. Sansa delighted in all the sights and sounds; responding to her mistresses' excitement, Lady dragged her along just as eager as she was to be outside.

Princess Myrcella's handmaidens gathered outside the royal caravan, laughing and taking turns braiding each other's' hair in the intricate styles popular in Kings Landing. Sansa hoped she could be friends with them, there were few girls her own age at Winterfell. They looked so pretty in their pastel southern gowns, so different from her heavy blue northern style dress; one of the girls noticed Sansa watching them and smiled at her. Sansa just turned to join them when she was accosted by a fearsome knight who boldly blocked her pathway and stared at her with an icy look.

Startled, Sansa stepped back and whispered "I beg pardon, ser." The knight said nothing in reply, only continued glaring at her as he stepped forward menacingly. _What have I done wrong?_ Sansa worried, a sharp shudder of fear wracking her body. As she took another step back, she felt a large hand rest reassuringly on her shoulder.

Positive it was her father coming to her aid, Sansa turned to thank him and was surprised to discover it wasn't Ned behind her. The scarred face of the Hound startled her, his lips twitching into a small smile as he stared down at her while laying his mailed hand against her shoulder.

They first saw the Hound in full armor wearing his helm as they stood together watching the arrival of King Robert and his massive accompaniment. _He's Joffrey's bodyguard, one of the most feared men in all of Westeros, and as deadly as his brother, the Mountain,_ Arya whispered to her _._ Robb, Theon and John seemed afraid of him, going out of their way to avoid him as he stalked the corridors of Winterfell with a dangerous air.

His deep gray eyes softened as she met his eyes with a small smile. _Sandor's hand was comforting to me_ _even then,_ Sansa sighs softly at the memory. His scars indeed were fearsome to behold up close but she also saw kindness and a flicker of mischief in the man as well; it reminded her so much of her father and Arya's eyes that her initial fear of him left her instantly.

 _At first, Sandor thought I was afraid of him but he soon realized it was Ser Ilyn,_ she remembers. Her instincts served her well, for she soon discovered she had every reason to fear Ser Ilyn. Looking back, she pinpoints this moment her feelings for Sandor transformed from apprehension to kindness, even the beginning of friendship perhaps, and from that moment on her feelings toward him continued to grow stronger with time.

Sansa's reflections turn to the day of the tourney of the Hand; Sandor was the first person she and her father saw at the event. Eager to thank him, she mustered her bravery to look at him as he stood poised next to Joffrey. She made sure she looked into his eyes as she smiled, hoping he understood she was happy to see him and would like his friendship, only to be terribly disappointed when she saw him start to smile and then quickly frown and turn away from her.

 _Does he not remember me from the Kingsroad_? Sansa wondered as her mother's friend Lord Baelish sat down next to her. The Master of Coin-or Littlefinger as Arya disrespectfully insisted on referring to him-proceeded to tell her the frightening story of how the Hound's scars were the result of his brother holding his face in the fire as a child.

Shivering, she remembers his minty breath as he leaned in uncomfortably close to her, seeming to relish shocking her, even suggesting the Hound would kill her if she repeated what he told her _. More like he would kill you for telling me,_ she thought, biting her tongue.

After Lord Baelish finished his tale she couldn't resist the urge to look at Sandor once more. _He must have fearsome past and seen terrible things,_ she thought sadly. As she gazed at him steadily she decided he must be a very brave man to have suffered such agony. Her heart ached realizing what Sandor suffered and Sansa's new-found admiration and respect for him made her even more determined to be kind to him.

When he returned her gaze, first he looked surprised, then pleased...and for the second time she watched his eyes softened as he stared at her. Sansa remembers how her heart pounded with excitement when she discovered he shared her feelings but hid them out of necessity. Overjoyed and a little unsettled, she impulsively jumped up and cheered when Loras named Sandor the champion of the tourney, and she recollecting her father's puzzled glance brings a smile to her face.

After that day, she sought opportunities to speak to him. Joffrey's cruelty quickly killed the tenderness Sansa felt for him, savagely decimating her dreams of being his queen, leaving them to die alongside her father the day of his execution. While threatening Sandor under penalty of death, Joffrey forced him to take her captive and put him in charge of Ned during his trial; she would never forgive Joffrey for it.

When the sadistic boy king forced her to look upon her beloved father's head, Sansa abhorred Joffrey, her mind screaming at her to end his life. Sandor saved her from herself, prevented her from committing regicide and covered her actions by tenderly wiping the blood Ser Meryn left on her lip.

By the time Sandor admitted his devotion to her in the Red Keep, her love for him was complete, and it was only Sansa's mind which needed catching up to what her heart had long since felt. She had so successfully suppressed her every emotion out of pure necessity for so long that Sansa's true feelings had become a mystery even to herself.

By the time she discovered her true feelings for Sandor, Sansa was ready to give herself over to him in every way possible. She was his, body and soul, and now that she would never be able to accept another, no matter what may be expected of her as a highborn maiden.

Sandor tenderly rubs her stomach and his large hand practically covers the expanse of her tiny waist, his touch rousing Sansa out of her reverie , bringing a rush of warmth radiating down to her hips to her woman's place. Affectionately she covers his hand with hers and he surprises her with the feeling of his warm soft lips touching her neck, his tongue tracing over her skin, his kiss diffusing shivers of pleasure down her spine. Gasping, Sansa revels in his touch and closeness, softly sighing in delight at his attentions.

The cold night air eventually clears Sansa's head of the wine, and the familiar shyness with Sandor replaces her earlier bravado. Being so close to him makes her keenly aware of his hardened manhood brushing against her low back with Strangers gait, blushing furiously as she remembers what they did together earlier in the night.

"Are you feeling feverish, Little bird?" He rasps in her ear, the warmth of his breath sending tingles throughout her body. Turning her face up to him, he frowns while resting the back of his hand against her cheek. "You don't feel warm, but you are flushed."

Smiling, she nods and snuggles back against him. "I am fine; I am only…warm."

"Humph, good, though I don't know how; it's fucking cold out tonight," he grunts while pulling her closer to him. Sandor's gentleness suffuses Sansa's heart and body with love for him; lost in the pleasure of the feeling of his body against her own, her bashfulness is soon forgotten.

Sandor presses her close to his chest once again and Sansa relaxes in the warm security of his embrace. The last remnant of the night's terror disappears from memory as she reaches up to stroke his cheek. Wrapping her arms around his, she closes her eyes and finally allows sleep to overtake her.

* * *

Sandor slows Stranger and Maiden down to a trot when he notices Sansa is fast asleep. He is pleased she finally relaxed and hopes the affection he shows her brings comfort and helps her feel safe with him. Caressing her face, Sandor is completely lost when it comes to this lovely maiden; she is beautiful in the moonlight, her pale skin glowing like a northern winter goddess made flesh. Sandor swears to himself he will do anything to keep her safe, no matter the cost; his love for Sansa has replaced the darkness within him, making him feel whole for the first time in his life.

Deep down he concedes he doesn't deserve Sansa; the man wonders endlessly at her capacity to love him. _After the way I treated her father, I am surprised she can bear to look at of me. She must have been in shock and doesn't remember the part I played in her father's trial and execution._

Sandor has done plenty to be ashamed of in the service of the Lannisters and Baratheons. Never before has he given his behavior a second thought; if his conscience piqued him at all, he would drown it in LIttlefinger's finest Dornish sour. The memory of his participation that day, minimal though it was, shames far deeper than anything in his life.

 _Sansa looked so sweet and innocent standing next to Cersei, her eyes full of trust, believing Joffrey would keep his word to her._ Sometimes at night he closes his eyes and Sansa's pale expression of horror would come into his mind unbidden, tormenting him body and soul. He hears her anguished screams for them to stop ignored by Joffrey as he ordered him to push Ned forward for Ser Illyn...and then watches helplessly as her lifeless body falls in a heap at Ser Meryn's feet. Sandor would awaken soaked in cold sweat and nauseated, and no matter the hour he would go hunt up a wineskin to drown his misery.

 _Is it possible she remembers and choses to forgive and love me anyway?_ For a moment he dares hope it could be true; of course there were many other factors that led to Ned's execution but Sandor only focuses on himself. His guilt overpowers all logic in remembering that day and even the knowledge he had no control of Joffrey's decisions does little to assuage his guilt.

 _Or maybe the gods figured it would be a just punishment for my sins,_ Sandor muses sadly. _A sick joke my expense._ The love of his beloved Sansa, the bliss of her touch, the feel of her lips and body against his…to allow him to experience her love only to snatch it away would be the cruelest punishment imaginable. Sandor would rather face the fire a thousand times rather than lose her.

Love and fear of losing Sansa bonds within him and Sandor finds himself utterly possessive of her. It is not hatred for Gregor that turned him into a killing machine during the battle of the Blackwater nor did it drive him to kill Ser Meryn, Ser Preston, or Sansa's maid with lethal efficiency: it was his fear of losing her. The anxiety consumes him to the point he believes he will go mad if anything or anyone threatens to take her from him.

 _What happened to me? If someone had told me a year ago I would be thinking such things, I would have laughed in their face before I knocked them out cold._ In the past he contented himself with whores and wine, never allowing himself to hope he would someday have a wife to love and who would love him in return.

Sandor recalls his words to Bronn before the battle; he likes drinking and fucking, but killing-that was the sweetest thing to him...until Sansa. Holding her in his arms, Sandor cannot bring himself to imagine life without her. Many men would have taken her, content to use her body and move on but he knows in his heart he could never be satisfied with just fucking her: Sandor dreams of having Sansa not just for a night, but for a lifetime.

In King's Landing, thoughts of their future together were his constant companions during waking hours and filled his dreams at night. Often he imagined how it would feel to lie naked in her arms, holding her body against his, skin against skin with nothing between them. Every day and every night he would expend himself making love to her until his body had no more left to give...he longed to fall asleep wrapped in her arms...

But it was not always lustful setting he imagined: at times he wondered what their wedding would be like, where their home would be and found himself yearning to have children with her, much to his astonishment. _Would they have a boy or a girl first? Would the children look like her, or would they be a combination of us?_

He longs for Sansa to be the first person he sees in the morning and the last he sees before closing his eyes at night; he wants to grow old with her, to have forever together if the gods are good; but if he is only meant to have her love a short while, then he is damned well determined to make the most out of it.

He will not allow his fear of losing her to cause Sansa pain, emotionally or otherwise nor will he continue their journey with the dark cloud of fear over them. The anxiety of losing her threatens their happiness together in a way no outside force is capable; the only logical course is to confront it at some point in the very near future.

Sandor sighs in resignation, deciding to tell her of his feelings as soon as possible. Noticing the stars shining brightly overhead, Sandor looks upon them and for the first time since he was burned by Gregor he says a silent prayer to the old gods and the new.

Looking down at Sansa asleep in his arms, he thanks both the Seven and the old gods for seeing them out of King's Landing safely. _I want to find a different life, a new way of living with her, for her. If you will only allow Sansa's love to remain mine forever, I swear I will spend the rest of my life trying to make up for my past wrongs. I vow Sansa will know nothing but joy with me; her body will only know pleasure where previously she has only knew pain._

The position of the moon tells Sandor dawn will break in a few hours and so he leads Stranger off the path of the Kingsroad and into the tall evergreens of the dense woods. The many horses and people that have traveled these paths in the previous days obscure Stranger and Maiden's tracks. Even if any good tracks are visible, Sandor knows only his brother and Jamie Lannister are skilled enough to track them.

 _Jaime is still the Stark's prisoner, and Gregor...the gods know he has no interest in searching for us_ , he gratefully laughs to himself. _We will be much safer in the thick forest._ Sandor knows his way through the deep woods very well and Stranger and Maiden are both sure-footed and experienced enough as warhorses to traverse the forest without much difficulty.

The temperature of the air drops further as they travels deeper into the canopy of trees, searching for a suitable place to rest. _Our first night away from King's Landing at last,_ he smiles to himself.


	9. A Chance to Rest

The sun had already been up an hour, but the forest was still and dark as night. The only variation was now sunlight filtered through the trees in golden bands, illuminating only the areas that reached the forest floor. Sansa had awakened and looked around her, admiring the beautiful surroundings in silence. Sandor had warned her their silence made them safer here, and he led Stranger and Maiden through the dense trees on foot now as his eyes eagerly searched for signs of unwanted visitors in the area.

When they reached a small clearing in the wooded canopy, Sansa noticed that the air was alive with flying insects, made visible in the shafts of sunlight. Stranger began to snort and paw the ground; Maiden responded by nickering and reared up several times. Sandor drew his sword; he and Sansa found themselves surrounded by five large men who seemingly materialized out of the deep green forest from thin air. They had long hair and beards and dressed in animal skins; fierce-looking Rivermen that reminded Sansa of the men of the Northman clans her father often hosted at Winterfell.

Sansa gasped loudly, staring at Sandor, pensively waiting to see his next move. She was shocked speechless when he changed the position of his sword from his defensive stance to the informal way he stood at Joffrey's side in the Throne room of the Red Keep. Sandor's body relaxed as stood erect with both hands on the hilt, placing the tip of the blade of his greatsword to the ground. "What are you doing?!" she wanted to scream, but remembering his words earlier in the morning about trust, she remained silent.

"What might the likes of you be doing in our woodland at this time of morn?" asked the youngest looking man. At hearing his words the other men chuckled nervously. "You'll have to forgive Orin, Lord Clegane, he doesn't know he's addressing the fiercest sellsword in Westoros." The young man paled at the sound of Sandor's surname and moved his horse away from him.

Sandor glowered at him and said, "Braden you need to teach your pups some manners before some mean-tempered Dog decides to do it for you. It'd be a shame for someone as green as him to find his first day out ends up being his last on this godforsaken earth." Sandor rasped sarcastically; the very sound of his words clearly frightened the young man further.

Braden chuckled again and quickly changed the subject. "To be sure Sandor, to be sure...we're surprised to see you here. Word came down to us that your brother is up at Harranhall with Tywin Lannister. They're looking for men that might know Robb Stark's whereabouts-for questioning only, they say. We've seen evidence to the contrary, though." The other men exchanged looks; when they noticed the young maid in the dark cloak on horseback no one commented any further on the subject.

At the sound of Robb's name Sansa shot Sandor a nervous look. "Any bastard unfortunate enough to know Gregor knows he never just asks questions...so where is the Young Wolf?" Sandor asked while glancing at Sansa out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge her reaction.

"No one knows. If the Mountain finds Stark men, they'll never tell Tywin anything. The Northmen are tougher than those Lannister sons of bitches, with their great bears and their direwolves...a useless endeavor, if I ever heard one." Instantly Sansa thought of her beautiful Lady and she coughed suddenly to cover her emotions.

"They have been raiding all the caravans of new recruits heading north to the Wall as well." added the largest man, who wore a long red beard; Sansa heard the other men call him Eric.

"What are you doing here Clegane? We thought you'd be in the middle of all the fun at Blackwater Bay, being Joff's Dog and all." "Not Joff's anymore-I'm my own dog now. Left the Kingsguard a few days before the battle. I'm going to make a new life for myself."

"Would this young lady have anything to do with your decision Clegane? What's your name Girl?" laughed the oldest man as he eyed Sansa. "I am Lady Clegane. I am so pleased to meet you my Lord." Sansa answered, blushing as she spoke. All of the men turned to stare at Sandor in surprise. Sandor scrambled to hide the shock he felt at her words as he nodded. "You may well be surprised my lords...we were just wed last evening. We have not even stopped to rest yet." The men smiled and nodded politely.

"It's my honor, Lady Clegane. I am Tierney, Chief of the Riverlands clansmen. Welcome to our forest." "Thank you my Lord, it is so very beautiful here in the daylight," smiled Sansa. "Clegane, you outdid yourself with this one-such a polite little lady taming the likes of you...no one would have thought it possible." said Tierney, slapping Sandor on the back as the rest of the men followed suit in congratulations.

"We would ask your permission to stay here for a day or two Tierney," said Sandor, and reaching into the pack on Maiden's flank he took out two large bearskins which he handed the chief. The chief held them out for inspection, nodded approvingly and handed them to Eric. The furs of the great bears of the North were rare and of high value in the Riverlands.

"We ask to come under the protection of your clan, as well as for our privacy-my bride is a bit shy." Sandor handed them a small pouch filled with coins. Tierney reached in and fingered its contents. "Stay as long as you wish Clegane. We'll not disturb you and your bride. Should we expect anyone to come looking for you?"

"Might be...could be," answered Sandor. "I'm no septon; I've buggered off plenty of dangerous men...who knows when or where one of the bastards will turn up?" Sandor shrugged casually as if they were of no consequence; the men all laughed heartily at hearing this.

"No one will bother you here with us. There is a lovely spot just below the ridge line your Lady might enjoy seeing, very secluded...a nice little river runs there, small pools for wading too." he winked at Sandor.

"Enjoy your leisure, my Lady Clegane." he said turning to Sansa. "Come lads let's be off now, with the battle at Blackwater there's sure to be more intruders needing our attention along soon." said Tierney as he and the other men rode off, disappearing into the forest as quickly as they had appeared.

Sansa turned to Sandor. "How long have you known them?" Sandor shrugged. "Since I was seventeen or so, when I was with Robert putting down the few remaining Targaryen loyalist enclaves from the rebellion. No one gets through these forests without their permission, I can assure you. Besides, sellswords know all kinds of tricks your so-called honorable knights would never dream up." Sansa nodded, thinking she had so much to learn about his past. "Will we really stay here for a few days-is it...is it safe?"

"Little Bird, I've been up for almost three days-I still need time to recover from the travel and fighting-the pain's come back since the wine wore off...and you look like you're about to fall off Stranger as we speak. We're safe here, trust me. Those Lannister bastards will never come through this forest, and even if they try Tierney won't allow it. We'll stop when we reach the spot Tierney told us about, won't be long now." Sandor sighed wearily as he got back on Stranger, shifting her in front of him once more as he headed off at a trot.

It was mid-morning when they reached the ridge line, and the beauty of the spot took Sansa's breath away. The deep forest gave way to a meadow with a small crystal blue river running along the treeline. Shallow blue-green pools in small inlets dotted its banks. Melted snow flowed over a large granite outcropping that made for a small waterfall which fed the river; and plenty of rocky areas ideal for shelter surrounded the banks. The air was crisp and the sky a magnificent blue peeked through the trees.

She turned in the saddled and smiled brilliantly at Sandor; she couldn't help but think it would be a lovely spot for their actual honeymoon one day. He squeezed her tight and kissed her, before dismounting and lifting her out of the saddle.

Once her feet touched the ground Sansa was shocked by how much pain she felt-every part of her that had touched the saddled was sore. Sandor laughed as he watched her move stiffly, trying to shake out the pain in her limbs. "You can go soak in those pools over there while I hunt us up some breakfast," he said as he unloaded Stranger and Maiden, turning them loose to feed on the succulent grass in the meadow.

Sansa blushed deeply at his words and she nodded shyly. He handed her a small package and coughed. "Shae gave me these-she said it's the lavender soap you like-uh, I thought...you might want it along." he shrugged awkwardly. She smiled gratefully at him and giggled as she opened it. "Don't worry about your bath, I'll only peek a little," he teased, and barking his deep laugh at her he walked away with his bow toward the forest.

Sansa reached in Shae's bag and took out her blue housegown and robe. She found some bushes to hide behind and peeled off her Southern gown, now covered with soot and the sickening smell of wildfire permeated the fine material. Hurriedly tying on her robe she walked to the pool closest to the bushes; sticking her toe in she found it considerably warmer than the water flowing over the outcropping.

Glancing around her, she quickly took off her robe and plunged into the water. She laughed at how good the warm water felt on her skin; she dipped her head under several times and used the soap Sandor gave her to wash her hair. Soon she heard Sandor working in their camp; she smelled the delicious fragrance of roasting meat and her appetite returned at the aroma. She quickly moved on to her body, eager to finish before Sandor decided to come looking for her.

As she rinsed off she noticed the numerous bruises covering her body. She obviously knew they were there before, but the way Shae washed her she hadn't really had a chance to see them clearly...she realized now Shae had done this on purpose to spare her.

In the bright sunlight the bruising stood out horribly against her pale skin. They covered her neck, shoulders, wrists, and ankles; varying in color at different stages of healing...serving as a reminder of all the things she had endured the past several days in King's Landing. Her mind went back to the bread riots and the men that attacked her. She recalled her fear for Sandor's safety as he went to battle and the terror she felt at the sight of the wildfire...and everything in between. Joffrey making her kiss his sword...Cersei's drunken taunts...Shae telling her to run...deep feelings of grief rushed upon her at once.

She stared horrified at the sight of her bruised wrists and ankles as the blue green water flowed over her legs; suddenly visions of the filthy men grabbing her roughly and spreading her legs assaulted her. The smell of their unwashed bodies filled her nose once again. The feeling of the man's hot drunken breath on her ear as he threatened her, her smallclothes being ripped from her body-it all came flooding back into her mind and filled her senses once more with terror.

Sansa was overwhelmed with the memories of her terror and pain and along with it came all the anxiety and grief she had long suppressed in King's Landing ever since the horrific day her father was execution at Joffrey's command. Her sobs came on her fast and uncontrolled; Sansa's wails lasted so long she was left gasping for air, choking out her pain as tears poured down her cheeks. Sansa felt her chest heave as she sobbed, fearing the torrent of tears would never stop flowing in her anguish.

Sandor heard Sansa's cries in the distance, and he grabbed his knife and raced to the pool where she bathed. He saw she was in the water alone; he looked around searching for the cause of her tears. He heard Maiden nickering in distress at Sansa's cries. Confused, he ducked behind the brush and decided to watch her for a while, thinking she may feel it improper for him to approach her as she was naked in the water.

His past experience with women told him Sansa had a good cry-out coming after everything she had been through. Maybe she needs to be alone, he thought to himself. But as her sobs continued unabated, he cursed propriety and eagerly went to her.

He grabbed her robe off the rock and waded out to Sansa; she continued crying, oblivious to his presence. "Why the tears Little Bird?" he asked softly, wrapping her in her robe and carrying her out of the water.

She clung to his neck and sobbed harder. He set her down on the grass and knelt down beside her, waiting for her to speak. "Look at what those...those m-men did to m-me," she stuttered out as she sobbed. "What did they do? Show me," he asked tenderly, brushing her wet hair from her face.

"Look at th-this," she said as she moved her robe to show him the bruises on her neck and shoulder. Sandor bent over her mover her hair aside with his hand. He gently kissed the areas above her bruises, running his tongue in small circles around them. Sansa gasped in surprise. "Where else?" he asked, pulling her closer to him.

"Here," she said holding her wrists out to him. He gently took both wrists in his hands and kissed the bruises there as well, then kissed each of her hands. Sandor saw goosebumps rise up on her arm at his touch. "Are there any more?"

"On my ankles," Sansa whispered, moving her robe to show him her legs. He knelt down and took each ankle in hand, kissing around her bruises tenderly. Sansa shivered in pleasure at the feel of his mouth on these sensitive spots in spite of herself. Her tears stopped and she smiled sadly at him, nervously wringing her hands.

Sandor scooped her up and sat her in his lap. "Sansa, these bruises are only temporary; it takes time, but they will heal, he began. "Just like the memories of what those men did; it will take time for you to heal from that, too...but it will happen. In my experience the worst wounds are usually the invisible kind." She sniffed nodding in agreement knowing he understood.

His faced turned deadly serious. "You remember what I did to those men?" he looked deep into her eyes, and his own eyes gleamed in rage at the very memory of that day. Sansa looked down at her hands and nodded again, trying not to think of how the men looked when he finished them off. He had cut each of the men's throats ear to ear, practically decapitating the one that held her wrists. As for the man who grabbed her ankles and tried to rape her-Sandor had gutted him like an animal...she shivered again.

Sandor lifted her chin up to look him in the face. "I'd do it again in a heartbeat believe that, and worse than that too if anyone dares try to hurt you again. No one will ever hurt you again or I'll kill them," he growled.

"I'll keep you safe Little Bird, I swear it. You believe me?" he patted her leg. Sansa smiled up at him and said, "Yes, Sandor, I believe you with all my heart." "That's my girl," he said, lifting her to her feet. "Now let's break our fast on some roast rabbit."

Sansa ate heartily, and felt much better after she finished her meal. Her crying had left her completely exhausted, and with her stomach full and her mind at rest she was eager to sleep. Sandor had laid stones in the fire on which he roasted the rabbits; and with his armored glove he carefully lifted them off the embers and set them in one of the craggy outcroppings that would serve as their shelter. Soon the heat from the rocks warmed the whole area.

Sandor let her get settled in while he went to bathe; he figured she might be feeling shy and want some privacy. Soon she heard him cursing and howling from the ice cold water under the falls. "Damned water must be made of ice from north of the Wall! Seven Hells it's damn likely to freeze my buggering cock right off before I finish!" he shouted angrily and at hearing him Sansa couldn't contain herself; she laughed out loud so hard and so long her sides hurt.

He could hear her girlish peels of laughter from where he stood; it filled his heart with happiness to hear such a sweet sound come from her. "Think that's funny, do you? How about I drag you into this ice water with me?" he growled loudly, a smile spreading across his face as her laughter continued louder than before.

He had laid out the bedrolls a respectable distance from each other so as not to put any unwelcome pressure on Sansa. Sandor had suspected her lack of inhibition with him in her room had something to do with the wine he had tasted on her lips; and as their night of travel wore on he had noticed her ladylike shyness return to her. He respected her innocence and modesty; and he found her pretty blushing around him aroused him more powerfully than anything ever had before.

When he returned to the shelter he had on clean pants but had left his chest bare; a wound from the battle on his side needed air to heal. Sansa had moved the bedrolls closer together and sat waiting for him on the covers. She had changed into her blue gown; and Sandor drank in the sight of her looking so beautiful, happy and peaceful. A deep blush came across her cheeks at the sight of his naked chest as he sat down beside her.

She lowered her eyes from his to look at his chest; tentatively she traced the scars on his chest with her index finger, her lips parted with desire for him. Sandor covered her hand with his and stared deep into her eyes, his passion for her unmistakable. "Why did you tell Braden you were my bride, Lady Clegane?" he asked quietly, his voice low and hoarse.

"Because I...I want nothing more than to be your wife Sandor. Last night you said you meant to make me your wife; did you change your mind?" she whispered against his lips, kissing him softly. "No, you best believe I damn well meant what I said. Will you...will you be my wife Sansa?" Sandor asked her, pulling away from her so he could see her face.

"Yes, oh yes, my love," she gasped, laughing as she wrapped her arms around his neck tightly. "I'll marry you as soon as we reach a heart tree or a septon-I keep to both the old gods and the new. Or better yet I will recite the vows to you right now." she went on excitedly." I care nothing for a big wedding ceremony...the old Sansa that thought of such things died at King's Landing with my father." she said more softly.

"I wish to never spend another day parted from you; I want nothing more to share my life...and my bed...with you forever." She blushed again at her daring words and he responded by hungrily kissing her on the mouth, lying her down on the bedrolls he passionately continued kissing her until Sansa felt she could barely catch her breath. Sansa broke their kiss and raised upright; gently she raised Sandor up to a sitting position with her. He pulled her onto his lap and she turned around, straddling his lap to face him.

"I mean my words Sandor. Let no more time pass with us unwed. I wish to swear my wedded vows to you right here and now...is that alright with you my love?" Sansa asked breathlessly, holding his face in her hands.

Sandor could barely contain his emotions at her words; all of his dreams and hopes he had nurtured for the past year were about to come true. He could hardly believe his good fortune...the gods had for some reason seen fit to give him the chance he feared he would never deserve.

A year ago Sandor had been a merciless killer without a conscience, content to do whatever was asked of him for the right amount of coin. Wine and whores were his comfort; he needed nor wanted anything or anyone else. He habitually expected and received nothing in life, and he thought he had himself convinced he was happier that way.

But this beautiful young maid in his arms changed everything for him; he was obviously first attracted to her otherworldly beauty, but as he watched her from a distance he found himself deeply touched by her quiet strength. Sansa appeared so delicate, like a tiny caged bird; but she proved herself a true wolf of the North. She had endured the worst imaginable circumstances; yet she remained unchanged and unbroken by the Lannisters' treachery.

How she still managed to maintain her honor, courtesy and dignity was a revelation to him about the true beauty in her soul. Observing her daily struggle to survive in the Lion's den, isolated from her family and yet still keeping her kind heart won Sandor over completely: his heart, body and soul was hers, and hers alone from then on.

She still held her belief in the basic good of people despite her circumstances; she brought about changes in his mind and heart he would never have imagined possible. She had managed to do the very thing he he had found impossible; she refused to allow the worst thing that had ever happened to her change who she was as a person.

She made him want to be a better man; one that could nurture the hope of one day finding his love for her returned. She made him long for a wife, children and a home; he wanted to be everything to her and gladly spend his life trying to satisfy the desires of her heart if she would only be his alone.

That is what drove him to her room after the battle: his deep and abiding love for her. Where he had once been cynical, now he had hope. He had prayed to the gods and had dared to hope that she would give him his one chance at happiness. Now all he had wished for was about to become reality for him. He silently thanked the gods for answering his prayers.

"There is nothing I could possibly want more in this world than to swear my wedded vows to you this very moment Sansa," he replied softly, his voice breaking with emotion. Sansa felt him trembling beneath her as she looked into his eyes and said her vows.

"Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am his, and he is mine, from this day, till the end of my days." Sansa said softly, her voice trembling with emotion as she stared deep into Sandor's eyes, her fingers caressing the burnt side of his face.

Sandor swallowed back his emotion, and then said his vows to her in return.

"Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am hers, and she is mine, from this day, till the end of my days." Sandor said, his voiced choked with emotion as his eyes filled with tears.

She laughed and squeezed her arms around his neck in a tight embrace. "Now we are one Sandor, at long last!" she said as tears of joy fell from her eyes. Sandor nodded, holding her body close to him tightly. "Yes, we are finally one...my love," Sandor said, as he passionately resumed kissing her once more, laying her down on the bedrolls.


	10. Free to Love at Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man has never been in love, let alone made love to a woman but with Sansa it is all so very new, a completely different experience for him to actually express his love for a woman as he pleasures her. With Sansa it has been intimate, profound and touches his heart as well as his body. More than anything he wants the way he loves her to express how much she means to him, how deeply he loves and needs her both in body as well as heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a completly rewritten as of 3-16-13, so if you have read it before, you'll notice there are alot of changes here. I hope you will find it flows better this time around! Your comments and concrit are most welcome ;)

* * *

Rolling Sandor on his back, Sansa delicately runs her fingers through the thick hair on his chest. "I can't bear the thought of the pain you have endured my love; let me replace each one with pleasure," she whispers, her mouth hot against his skin. One by one, Sansa carefully kisses each of Sandor’s scars, starting at the hollow of his throat and languidly working her way down his chest. “Your body will know only pleasure with me, my love.”

Running her tongue over his nipples, she gently sucks on them, hoping her husband will enjoy the feeling as much as she did the night before. Gasping, he pulls her head closer, arching into her in time with her tongue as she kisses her way down to his battle hardened stomach; a deep groan escapes him revelling at the feeling of her beautiful mouth tasting his body. When she reaches his stomach, she pillows her head there, savoring the feeling of the rise and fall of his rapid breathing against her cheek before following the path of hair to his lacings. Tentatively Sansa begins untying his breeches, all the while a deep blush rises to her cheeks.

Suddenly Sandor grabs her hands tightly, harder than he had intends in his passion. "I won't last like this Little bird, you are too beautiful...your touch feels too good...I want this too much," he rasps out, gasping for breath.

Smiling, she nods and gently runs her finger along his jawline. "As do I...I want all of you Sandor, body and soul. Hold nothing back from me, my love."

Panting, Sandor carefully pulls her on his lap, caressing her hips and thighs and Sansa straddles to face him, gasping at the feeling of his hard manhood firmly pressed against her woman's place. “Oh my love, you feel so good,” she moans low, arching into him further. “You are so very…big,” she sighs into his neck, slowly rocking her hips against him.

Chuckling, he reaches under the hem of her gown and caresses her long slender legs all the way to her thighs. “So I’ve been told,” he growls, before gasping when he realizes his beautiful shy little bird isn’t wearing smallclothes. Carefully he lifts her gown over her head before tightly pressing her lush naked body close to his chest, deeply inhaling her lavender scent as he buries his face into her shoulder.

She is so very warm and soft that Sandor pauses, allowing his gaze to sweep over her amazing beauty. The porcelain skin of her full breasts and flat stomach is flushed pink with desire as she grinds against him. A surge of possessiveness takes hold of him at the sight of her. _My beautiful bird will be mine after this night and I will fucking kill the man that tries to separate us,_ he thinks as he grips her hips tighter, guiding her movements against his manhood.

Blushing under his heated gaze, Sansa whispers, “Do I…please you? Am I pleasant enough to look upon?”

“Little bird, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” Sandor murmurs into her ear, his voice thick with desire.

“I hoped you would find me pleasing,” she bashfully replies, hiding her face in his neck.

Gazing down at her, Sandor is enamored by the sight of her lovely red hair falling down her back in a fiery cascade as she arches her hips, wantonly rubbing her woman’s place against his manhood. _My little bird wonders if she pleases me and here she is, a vision out of my most fevered wine dreams_.

“You please me in every way, Sansa,” he rasps into her hair, pushing her perfect thighs harder against him. Sansa wraps her long slender legs around his waist tightly and rocks against him while he leisurely allows his hands roam over her smooth skin. Sandor runs his tongue over her breasts, taking each one into his mouth and lightly suckling as he had the night before.

Sansa pulling him closer to her while running her fingers through his hair. "Please...please Sandor, I need...something...I need...more," she whimpers desperately, reaching for his lacings.

“Such an eager Little bird,” he growls, gently laying her down before quickly removing his pants.

At the sight of his nakedness, Sansa inhales sharply, her eyes widening as she drinks in sight of his erect manhood jutting out from his powerful thighs. _He is larger than most men in all respects._ "Sandor, my love, I need you...but please...be gentle with me," she pants breathlessly, lowering her eyes as she speaks. “I am a maid after all, and I’m afraid I will not be…enough for you,” she blushes, casting another quick glance at his manhood.

She is looking at him with such trust and her innocent request moves Sandor deeply, taking him by surprise. The man has never been in love, let alone made love to a woman; truth be told, he never before even cared whether the wenches he bought enjoyed it. But with Sansa it is all so very new, a completely different experience for him to actually express his love for a woman as he pleasures her; with Sansa it is been intimate, profound and touches his heart as well as his body.

More than anything he wants the way he loves her to express how much she means to him, how deeply he loves and needs her both in body as well as heart. Smiling down at her, Sandor gently caresses her face with his finger. “I’ll be careful with you lass, I swear it. I’ve never had a maid before, so tonight will be a first for both of us. You let me know what you like, Sansa, and I promise I’ll take it slow, alright?”

Shyly she blushes, smiling at him once more before she gently pulls him closer to her. His tender lovemaking heals her heart; the warm feeling of their naked bodies next to each other, the security of being wrapped tightly in Sandor's strong embrace, the tender way his keen eyes soften when he looks at her  makes Sansa feel loved in a way she has never known before. In his arms Sansa begins to feel whole again and she tries to communicate her feelings to him without words.

Carefully lowering his face to hers, she begins kissing him heatedly, her tongue slipping into his mouth while thrusting her hips against his in time with the movements of her tongue. Tearing his lips away from hers, Sandor lays her down and slowly begins lovingly kissing and tasting every inch of her body, careful not to leave any place neglected until Sansa writhes under the feel of his mouth, her body flushed and moist with a sheer mist of sweat. Rolling her hips against him with abandon, Sansa’s body silently begs for what is to come.

Covering her with his body, Sandor's breathing grows ragged from the effort of restraining himself as he slowly begins stroking his manhood against her slit. Gasping, Sansa feels her entire body trembling, every inch of her aching with passion when he wetly teases her entrance. Moaning, she arches her back so the head of his manhood slowly enters her body, crying out at the sudden rush of pleasure filling her woman’s place. Sansa is so eager, so wet for him that Sandor begins trembling with desire, fighting desperately to still his arousal in anticipation of entering her.

Fighting for control, he slowly, tentatively presses his manhood into her, only allowing the first few inches to penetrate her before her body suddenly tightens around his head and Sansa sobs her release, her inner muscles squeezing his manhood so tightly Sandor grips her hips in an effort to restrain himself from thrusting deep inside of her. Gritting his teeth, Sandor stills his movement and rasps out, “Are you alright, Little bird?”

“Yes, yes, oh gods…” she gasps out, her breath coming hard and fast as tears pearl in the corners of her eyes.

Kissing her face, Sandor tenderly brushes the tears away from her eyes. “I’ll try to take your maidenhead quick so it will hurt less,” he whispers against her mouth. “Are you in pain?”

“Yes, and no…it hurts some but oh, it feels so good, too,” she whispers while slowly rocking her hips and adjusting her body to accommodate his large member. “Make me yours, Sandor; I want the pain, I want it all. Please, I need you,” she sobs out, tilting her hips so she can take in the entirety of his manhood.

Sansa’s muscles contract so tightly against him Sandor is blinded with pleasure and, unable to hold back no longer, he thrusts himself deep inside her, completely filling her up and tearing away her maidenhead in one fluid motion. Through the haze of pleasure rushing through his body, suddenly it comes to Sandor's mind that he should make sure she is not in pain. Stilling his movements once more, he hoarsely groans into her ear, “Sorry...you're just so tight, I've never had a maiden before...did I hurt you Little bird?"

"No...I mean, yes, but I love it. Please don't stop...I'll die if you stop now," she whispers breathlessly, causing Sandor moan against her mouth, kissing her tenderly as he slowly increases the depth and speed of his movements. Sansa clings to him tightly, crying out his name with every thrust and soon he begins pumping his manhood into her deep and fast, lost in the feel of his little bird’s warm wet body tightly pulsing around him. Moving her hips in time with his thrusts, Sansa heatedly cries out his name as she tries to match is thrusts by grinding into him. Panting heavily, Sandor feels her inner walls constrict around him so tightly he can hardly move as she peaks a second time, her lush wetness squeezing Sandor's release from him at the same moment. A primal cry escapes his throat as he finds his completion and unable to hold back his release any longer, he fills her with his seed as waves of pleasure wash over him.

Trembling and sated, Sandor pulls her close to him, and he and Sansa quietly lay spent in each other’s arms as their breathing slowly returns to normal.

“Sansa...you are all I have wanted ever since I first saw you on the Kingsroad. I love you, Little bird. I swear on every one of your gods that I'll love you forever," Sandor whispers as he pulls her closer still, burying his face in her hair to hide the tears that fall from his eyes.

"As I love you Sandor...I have loved you since I first felt your touch when Ser Ilyn scared me on the kingsroad. We are joined by the gods, my love and I am devoted to you and you alone. I will make you happy, I promise to be a good wife to you.”

“Me? Happy?” Sandor laughs scornfully. “Don’t know that I’ve ever felt that way.”

“With me you will know nothing but happiness, Sandor. I'm so grateful we are married now, I have feared my family would otherwise plan to barter me away with an arranged marriage to some lord," Sansa whispers, looking intently at him and suddenly she sees the soft expression in his eyes transform into a dark fury.

"You are mine, Little bird, _mine_ , do you understand me?" Sandor seethes, grabbing her shoulders tightly. "You belong to me, all of you! Your heart, your body...you are mine! You are my wife and I will never allow anyone to take you away from me."

Sansa shrinks from him in fear as he grabs her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. "I don't give a fuck who tries to separate us-makes no difference if it is your family, septon or lord, man or woman. Make no mistake: any buggering bastard dares attempt to dissolve our marriage and pawn you off to another will die the slowest and most painful death imaginable at my hands," he spits out each word deliberately through gritted teeth.

“Sandor, please, I only meant-“ Sansa whispers, her voice trailing off in fear.

"I swear it on my life Sansa...I will kill the fucking Warrior himself before I let anyone take you from me," Sandor’s voice now ragged with fury.

 _He looks like a madman;_ Sansa shivers as she recognizes the expression in his eyes now gleaming with a wicked fury: the Hound has returned to him. Fighting her instinct to run away from him, she tentatively reaches to touch his face; growling, Sandor jerks away from her, turning his back to her. Slowly she reaches out to him again, turning his face so he will look directly into her eyes, trying desperately to convey her love for him in her gaze.

Slowly she feels him relent as she gently caresses the burnt side of his face before running her fingers through his hair. "You must trust my love for you, Sandor. I will never accept anyone trying to separate us either, and gods forbid, if such a situation ever arises I will stand by you, however you choose to handle it...I would be the last person to hold you back. I am your wife...I have promised myself to you before the gods. Please don't close your heart to me Sandor, not after you've filled my heart and body with so much love," Sansa whispers the last words, unable to hold back the tears falling from her eyes.

Sighing heavily, Sandor lowers his head and pulls her onto his lap, willing her to feel safe with him once more. "I can't bear to live without you Sansa...I can't..." he stammers, at once ashamed to see he has frightened her and ruined their beautiful moment. “I’ve never…this is the first time I’ve ever…I cannot bear to live without you,” he chokes out, shame filling his eyes.

“I know, my love. I'd sooner die than be separated from you, too," she whispers against his cheek before resting her head in the crook of his neck.

"Shh, don't say such things," he chides, raising a finger to her lips. "I won't let that happen, I swear it."

"Forgive me, I never should have upset you by speculating what my family may or may not do...I was only thinking out loud. It was thoughtless and I'm sorry," she said in a low voice. "I know it is a sensitive subject for us."

"No, Little bird, I'm the one that's sorry; I shouldn't have scared you. I'm just a rabid dog that needs learn to behave better," he mutters low, shaking his head in disgust.

Squeezing him close, Sansa giggles before pulling him back on the bedrolls. “Then I will teach you and I promise the lessons will be most enjoyable.”

Grinning, he snuggles down into the covers and Sandor kisses Sansa tenderly before they fall fast asleep curled in each other's arms.


	11. Reflections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is completely rewritten as of 3/25/13.

The deep orange light of late afternoon casts the shelter in a soft glow, slowly rousing Sandor from slumber. Completely exhausted, so deep was his sleep that his senses are slow in returning to him. _Where the hell am I?_   Sandor wonders as the granite walls of the shelter slowly come into focus.

He is not in his room in the Red Keep, of that he is certain." Must've passed out somewhere," he mutters to himself, though he can't remember any wine sink or brothel with stone walls. Suddenly he feels his arm tingling painfully; _I must have fallen asleep in a funny position_ , he thinks with a grunt until suddenly Sandor notices the unmistakably feminine feel of a woman's full breast in his hand.

 _Bloody hells-I fell asleep with a woman?!_ Sandor has never fallen asleep with a woman before in his life. His past visits to Baelish's brothels where short, awkward experiences and once he shot his load and left his coin he was eager to leave the wenches as quickly as possible.

 _Is it possible I was at Littlefinger's and don't remember falling asleep with one of his girls?_ The woman in his arms doesn't smell of wine and heavy perfume like Littlefinger's women, who are too well-trained to allow just anyone to spend the night besides. Wracking his brain, the man blinks in a vain attempt at getting his eyes to focus. _Just how pissed did I get? What the fuck did Littlefinger put in my drink? Just wait 'til I get my hands on him-I'll kill that little bastard!_   Sandor jerks away, swearing to himself as he blinks several more times.

Sleep pulls heavily on him as he bundles the furs around him, refusing to open his eyes for a few precious moments longer. Sandor knows there is no danger from the small creature in his arms and he certainly isn't so drowsy that he can't recognize the warm, soft feeling of a woman. As usual, his body responds quicker than his brain and in no time his hard cock is pressing insistently against the woman's thigh. He hears her respond with a low moan and the woman cuddles still closer to him.

When his eyes finally focus, Sandor immediately recognizes Sansa's lovely thick red hair falling across his chest. _It's my sweet little bird in my arms,_ he sighs, stroking the small of her back and savoring the feeling of her. His beloved bride is sleeping peacefully on his stomach and at the sight of her Sandor relaxes and lies back down, chuckling at his own foolishness. _Gods, too much wine after the battle._

Entangled in each other's limbs, he is surprised Sansa is sleeping so soundly. Sandor awakened gripping her tightly and he marvels that she seems perfectly at peace with one hand resting over his heart, her fiery hair spread across his body and her full red lips parting invitingly as she breathes in slow and deep. Lost in slumber, she looks even more beautiful than ever, leading him to wonder how such a thing is even possible.

Gently releasing his hold on her, Sandor carefully pulls her up to his chest and Sansa responds by snuggling into the crook of his neck. Resting his chin on her shoulder, he breathes in the lavender scent of her hair while the memory of reciting their vows and lovemaking afterward replays in his mind: it was beautiful, powerful and by far the best experience of his life.

After the second phase of the moon, Sandor awakened and took her a second time and the memory brings a wicked grin to his face. Watching Sansa sleeping in his arms seems like an unreality to the man whose entire adult life has largely been devoid of human affection. Running his fingers through her hair and tenderly stroking her back, Sandor relishes the feeling of her soft warm body on top of him. _Sleeping with a woman certainly has its charms. Maybe I could get used to this after all_.

The need to relieve himself urgently calls now that he is fully awake and so he carefully disentangles himself from his bride, dresses quickly and heads outside. When he finishes, Sandor picks a bunch of nearby wildflowers and returns to the shelter and carefully lays them on the pillow next to Sansa, wanting the flowers to be the first thing she sees when she awakens.

Pulling on his tunic and breeches, Sandor walks outside and scans the camp. Stranger and Maiden are grazing on the thick grass by the river and three brown rabbits have found their way into the trap he hid among the succulents in the meadow. Discovering a small orchard of apple trees on the far bank of the river, Sandor leisurely picks several dozen, remembering Sansa has always been fond of the fruit back in King's Landing. Many times he watched her sneak apples in her dress pockets as she headed out to the stables, always starting out with a smile, fully intent on giving the animals a treat. But she never could resist the apples and it was only a matter of time before he noticed her finishing off the last one and entering the stables sheepish and empty-handed.

The memory brings a smile to his face as he offers them to Maiden and Stranger, the animals whinnying in excitement as they catch scent of the treat. "You deserve a reward after last night," he smiles at them, rubbing the horses' velvety noses while they eat. "The Cleganes are safe with you two guarding the camp." Stranger and Maiden have always alerted him to anything unusual when he camps out and at the slightest intrusion the mighty animals would trumpet and paw the earth. More than once both animals stomped intruders to death with their powerful hooves before he unsheathed his sword.

While he feeds the horses, his mind returns to earlier in the morning. Sandor couldn't say why he had been so angry at Sansa giving voice to her thoughts about her family. Fuck, he has always told her to quit chirping and say what she means and then when she did, he lashed out at her. He is disturbed by the memory and so Sandor decides to spend a little time cleaning and dressing the rabbits, using the work to sort out matters in his mind.

When Sansa brought up the possibility her family would seek to annul their vows and marry her off to another, she unknowingly put his deepest fear to words and hearing her give voice to it terrified him. The very thought sent Sandor's emotions spiraling into a black fury, reminiscent of the way he felt hearing Meryn's disgusting plan of raping her in her room.

Instantly filled with an unreasonable, raging jealousy, Sandor is ashamed to remember how roughly he jerked her chin up and grabbed her shoulders. His possessiveness reached frightening proportions and by her fearful expression he recognized he transformed into the Hound for her once again.

 _Poor Little bird, I was too rough; her beautiful eyes filled with tears because of how I treated her. I swore no one would ever hurt her again and yet I violently jerked away from her. I'm her husband now, for fuck's sake; I'm the last person who should treat her in such a way. I'd damn well kill any other buggering bastard for doing such to her… fuck me, how could I have let this happen?_   Sandor silently berates himself as he skins the rabbits, carefully setting aside the fur to make gloves for Sansa later.

She looked exquisite after they made love, all flushed and contented as she snuggled into him. The sudden change his behavior wrought in her shames him; she had glowed with happiness only moments before and then suddenly her face transformed into the fearful cringe he remembers as she looked at him in her room.

Knowing he has frightened her once again triggers a wave of self-loathing, mortifying him body and soul. In King's Landing when Sandor pictured he and Sansa married, he felt confident he would no longer be a slave to his insecurities and all his fear would dissipate. After taking her maidenhead, he felt secure that she belonged to him in body as well as name and believed his dread of losing her would then naturally disappear on its own.

Sansa truly belongs to him and Sandor's jealousy and possessiveness is far worse than ever before. Experiencing her love physically as well as emotionally only increases his intense need and compounds his fear to unbearable proportions. Sandor life has been marked by loss since childhood and as he moved into adulthood it fed his rage and nourished his fear, becoming an integral element of the Hound. He experienced his first loss when Gregor destroyed his face and with it, his identity. Next, his sweet sister Sarah who cared for him as he healed died mysteriously and his mother and father followed her not long after, leaving Sandor bereft of love and affection at the tender age on twelve.

After he lost his family, he left Clegane Keep deciding he would harden himself against feeling anything for anyone ever again. He eventually found himself among Tywin Lannister's soldiers, squiring for Ser Amory Lorch during the sack of King's Landing. The Lannister men laughed at his scars until one day he killed his first man with astonishing brutality and with this singular act Sandor began his descent into the Hound.

From that day forward, Sandor choked down his wrath and shame, only to mercilessly unleash it in battle and young though he was it didn't take long to forge his notorious reputation. Once the Lannisters discovered what Ser Gregor Clegane's younger brother was capable of, they wasted no time raising him into Robert's service, first as the personal bodyguard and servant to Cersei and later to their son.

Throughout his life he hardened himself to the point it became second nature to the man. "If you can't defend yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can," was his frequent saying. Every stare and comment thickened the walls surrounding his heart and every person who turned away from his scarred face further embittered him against humanity. Whatever suffering he couldn't choke down, he drowned with Dornish red and the desires of his body he fulfilled by enriching brothels with his bloodstained earnings.

And then along came Sansa and years of defensive walls he created for himself came crashing down with her. In King's Landing, he reserved what little kindness he had for her and her alone...he didn't give a fuck what anyone else thought about what he said or did.

Once it was his job to keep Sansa caged for the king, and now he has devoted his entire life to keeping his beloved, sweet-natured, beautiful wife safe and happy. Sansa willingly offered what is most precious to him: her heart. Loving her is the sweetest feeling Sandor has ever known and now that he has experienced her love he would sooner die than live without it. An involuntary shudder courses through him when he thinks of losing her and the suffocating fear he feels is not from lack of trust but from not being able to endure the loss of another person he loves. Deep down, Sandor knows his fear will eventually threaten their love and future family if he does not learn to control it.

Sandor wants to wait for their family, knowing it would be dangerous for her to conceive while they are on the run and he cannot bear to risk her health. When they left King's Landing, she just finished her moon blood but Sandor knows soon enough it will be necessary for him to spill his seed on the ground, though he has serious doubts about whether he will be able to control himself enough to do it.

 _She is just so damned desirable in every way...being with her makes me feel like a fucking greenboy of six and ten again, he laughs to himself._   His thoughts drift back once more to earlier in the morning when he awakened only a few hours after he and Sansa fell asleep. She was lying on his stomach, her hair falling all over him, her breasts pressing enticingly against his thighs with each breath she drew and he had been utterly helpless to resist her. He awakened her by gently lifting her on top of him and without a word she began kissing and licking his neck in small circles as she stroked his chest.

The feeling of her soft body lying flush against him while her mouth and her hands caressed him overpowered his senses and unleashed a desperate passion within him. Sandor's intense need and dread of losing her returned to him even stronger than before, and he made love to her with absolute abandon. In her arms he was a drowning man gasping for air, as though every touch, every kiss, every thrust into her could be his last. He clung tightly to her as he loved her, feeling she could be lost to him at any moment if he didn't maintain his grasp.

Sandor sensed his wife felt his desperation, for Sansa tightly embraced him in return, trying to match his pace. His peak had come upon him with such a powerful, almost violent force that afterward he laid covered in sweat, trembling and unable to speak. Completely overwhelmed with emotion, Sandor knew he had just shared the most powerful experience of his life with her.

Cradling his head against her breasts, Sansa softly murmured reassuring words of love as she languidly ran her fingers through his hair, all the while keeping her long legs wrapped tightly around his waist, totally embracing him with her body. When he finally raised his head she smiled at him and her eyes glistening with tears as she tenderly kissed him.

Inside his sword belt Sandor retrieves a black satin pouch containing a tiny ring that belonged to his sister Sarah. His father had given it to his mother for their engagement and his parents had it sized to fit Sarah for her twelfth nameday present. Gregor had made sure she never lived to wear it and tore their home apart trying to find her ring after her death. But Sandor managed to keep it hidden from Gregor, who eventually gave up and sold the rest of her belongings as soon as the funeral ended. Ever since that day Sandor has worn it inside his jerkin, next to his heart. Shuddering, he quickly puts Gregor out of his mind, refusing to allow his hatred for his brother pollute every memory he has of his sister.

After polishing it a bit, Sandor examines the detailed workmanship of the ring. The tiny gold band is set with three rows of diamonds reflecting the colors of House Clegane: one row of yellow diamonds set amid two rows of black diamonds on either side. This will look so beautiful on Sansa's hand; she can wear it as a wedded ring, he decides with a smile.

"Sansa is everything to me; she is mine now and I won't lose my beloved wife," he speaks out loud, desperately needing to hear the words brought alive by the sound of his voice. I'm my own worst enemy. _Me and my bloody temper will destroy us not someone else,_ he muses, realizing he must make changes or else he will drive her away. Sandor wants more than anything for her to feel safe with him and worries if he doesn't learn to control his rage that she will soon learn to lie to him out of fear of his reaction.

"She shouldn't fear me at all, damn it!" He swears out loud, shaking his head in disgust. Determined, Sandor vows to himself he will never give her reason to fear him again and allow his own irrational feelings to cause her suffering. _I cannot delay any longer; I'll talk to her as soon as she awakens and then I'll give her this_. Sandor will not risk their relationship any further by putting off the conversation, the man's worry of the dire consequences far outweighs his discomfort with broaching the subject.

* * *

The loss of Sandor's warmth draws Sansa out of her dreams. Glancing around the enclosure, her attention is soon drawn to a large bundle of wildflowers lying beside her; he also filled his helm with water and left it not far from the entrance for her as well. Sandor's apparent rapid adjustment to domestic life brings a huge smile to the girl's face. _They all fear him; if only everyone in King's Landing could see the ferocious Hound now,_ she can't help but laugh out loud to herself. It is a heady feeling for the young woman knowing she alone is able to bring out the tender side of the Hound, a man who inspires dread throughout the Seven kingdoms.

Sansa stretches back on the bedrolls and yawns contentedly, her mind and body satisfied in a way she never knew possible. Leaning over, Sansa picks up the purple lupine and smiles as she inhales their sweet perfume. "He must still feel bad about earlier," she whispers to herself, fingering the delicate petals.

Chilled, Sansa decides she will wash up and dress. Taking out her lavender soap and while scrubbing her face she reminisces on the past two days. She remembers in Maegor's Holdfast overhearing one of the highborn ladies gossiping to Cersei. One of their servants just arrived from House Frey with the news that apparently Robb caused a terrible rift with them by severing his betrothal to the Frey girl and instead wed another in secret.

 _Well, Robb and I have at least one thing in common: we follow our hearts,_ she smiles to herself as she splashes water over her face and neck. Her smile quickly fades, however, with the realization that the ramifications of his actions are deadly serious. _As the eldest daughter it would be considered my duty to amend the rift by marrying a Frey in his stead,_ she shakes her head with a frown of disgust.

With this thought she began wondering if going to her family was the wisest idea after all and sought Sandor's opinion on the matter. But before she could finish her train of thought, the Hound returned and Sandor grabbed her jaw and forced her to look at him in his rage.

As much as she longed for her family, a deep aching anxiety permeates her chest when she thinks of her mother and Robb. Her marriage to Sandor most certainly will be fraught with difficulties as far as her family is concerned. Disappointment fills the young woman at the realization that even away from King's Landing, she cannot avoid the threat of being pawned off to some unknown man as part of her family's efforts to gain the upper hand in the war.

Sighing in disgust, Sansa shakes her head with uneasy certainty, knowing the annulment of her marriage to Sandor is a distinct possibility. Robb loves her, of that she is certain but the sad truth is as King in the North, he likely has his own agenda for her should she return to them.

 _Robb will most definitely want an advantageous marriage for me that assures him the support of another major house in the war and expects heirs that will cement the union as quickly as possible. It is also well within his rights as king to annul any marriage as he sees fit_. After experiencing Sandor's reaction firsthand, she sincerely hopes it won't come to that, for even in his rage Sandor had been careful with her but she knows full well he will hold nothing back with anyone else.

While brushing her hair Sansa's mood grows serious, remembering how Sandor apologized to her, sheepish and contrite. Her family is a sensitive subject between them and the young woman cannot help but feel she should have chosen her words more carefully; after apologizing for her insensitivity she was determined she would approach the matter differently next time.

Smiling, she sighs as she remembers the way he awakened her to make love again...he was so romantic and passionate with her! Just thinking of it brings a deep blush to her cheeks and a now familiar tingle spreads through Sansa's body at the memory. His kisses and caresses drove her wild with desire and left her gasping for air... as their lovemaking went on however, Sansa truly came recognize the depth of Sandor's fear of losing her.

Gone was the gentleness he had shown her earlier and his passion had an almost frantic quality to it, as though this would be their last time together...as though something or someone was about to take her away from him. She had tried to match his passion toward her. With every kiss and touch she was willing him with her body to feel the depth of her love and commitment for him.

It had been such a deeply emotional experience for her that she could only hold him tightly and whisper her words of love for him after they had found their completion. She held him for a long time as she stroked his hair and when he finally raised his head to her, the look of longing and desperation in his eyes had instantly filled her own with tears. Sansa's eyes tear up once again at the memory, for it breaks her heart that even after she had said her vows he still doesn't feel secure with her.

 _I wonder if could have something to do with his past, maybe with his family._ Once as he escorted her back to her room, he made the comment that he might need to kill his brother the following day...she hadn't taken it seriously at the time, as he was drunk and sleepy. Such a thing was unthinkable to Sansa. _He couldn't have actually meant his words,_ she remembered thinking, until she remembered how he had been scarred.

Sansa leans back as she recalls Littlefinger's story. She has never been certain what his motive had been in telling her or whether she should have even believed him. Arya also had been equally suspicious of her mother's childhood friend and had scowled at him accordingly as he spoke. _But in retrospect Sandor's comments about Gregor certainly add weight to what Littlefinger said at the Hand's tourney,_ thought Sansa as she slips on the deep green wool dress Shae had given her.

Smoothing down the skirts, Sansa notices the gown is better fitted to her both in size and comfort than her gowns at King's Landing and she is surprised to find she is able to lace it by herself with little difficulty. As she finishes dressing, Sansa is more determined than ever to reassure him of her love; she will make him see how much she loves him, no matter what it takes.

Reaching into her bag, she takes out a kerchief she embroidered for Sandor after he vowed to keep her safe from Joffrey. Sansa had ordered the finest thickest yellow silk sash to be found for it, even though she knew such a request would no doubt draw attention. Though Cersei questioned why she wanted it, when she told her she wanted to make Sandor Clegane a favor for saving her, the queen openly laughed and waved her away.

First Sansa had cut it into a smaller square before embroidering the House Clegane sigil of three dogs in the center. She placed a small white and gray bird poised to land right above the third dog and in the lower right corner she made a smaller dog with his name next to it. In the upper left she put her name and the Stark direwolf sigil and next to the "S" in her name she added another little gray and white bird.

After holding it up for inspection, Sansa sighs with satisfaction at her work. She originally only meant it as a thank you gift: traditionally in the north such was given to a man by his bride on their wedding day as a sign of their union and the married men of the north wore such favors close to their heart. When she knew she loved Sandor she had finished it in hopes that one day they would be married.

Carefully Sansa folds it and then returns it to its place, the young woman eager to give it to Sandor after dinner as a sign of her commitment to him and nervously hopes he will like it and choose to wear it next to his heart.

The sound of wood being chopped fills the forest, drawing Sansa out of her reverie. Standing at the edge of their shelter, she looks out at the meadow and takes in the scene around her. The horses are grazing in the succulent grass and soon her eyes are drawn to three rabbits that had been skinned hanging from a nearby tree.

Wearing a look of deep concentration, Sandor brings down his battle ax on a log, the blow cleaning splintering it in two. Sansa notices Sandor had taken his shirt off, and with every strike of the ax his muscled arms ripple with power. No knight or lord Sansa had ever seen has a build like her Sandor, and marvelling at his chiseled chest and muscularly defined stomach, her eyes swept over his body, noting how the line of black hair from his chest trails down and disappears below the waistband of his pants. Gods, he's a magnificent sight, Sansa sighs as she watches him work.

Suddenly Sandor feels he is being watched, and turning toward the enclosure he sees Sansa in a lovely but simple green dress, smiling dreamily at him as she watches him chop wood, causing Sandor's heart to beat faster. No woman has ever looked at him with such affection and desire and he rather enjoys the feeling of being ogled by her.

"Who said you could put clothes on, woman? I'll kill the bastard!" He barks at her, openly taking in her figure with a lustful grin as he makes his way toward her. Reaching out, Sandor smiles while she laughs and takes his hand, allowing him to help her make her way down the rocks to where he stands.

Jumping up into his arms, Sansa throws her arms around his neck, drawing his lips down to hers in a deep kiss. "See something you like?" He asks huskily. Feeling breathless from being held so tightly against his body, Sansa blushes as her eyes fall on his bare chest. "Oh, yes," she whispers against his lips, tenderly stroking his skin with her fingertips.

Groaning into her kiss, he says, "Let's have our dinner first, then I'll be ready for dessert!" Setting her down, Sandor solidly smacks her on the bottom before turning his attention back to the woodpile; Sansa squeals in surprise, laughing merrily as she helps him prepare their evening meal.

"I had no idea our married life would start out with you doing all the cooking and chores!" She teases and to her surprise that comment earns her another smack on the bottom, after which he takes her hand in his and kisses it before handing her an apple, much to her delight.

The fiery red sun dips low on the horizon when they sit down to eat. The meal is a simple one, consisting of roasted rabbit and apples with a salad made from fire weed Sansa had gathered to go with it. Sansa and Sandor spend the mealtime eating and laughing heartily, swapping funny experiences with enthusiasm.

When they finish their meal, Sandor watches Sansa as she cleans up their camp; she looks so beautiful and happy it takes his breath away. How will he ever get used to having her all to himself? He wonders with a smile, busying himself with placing more rocks on the fire that will warm their enclosure overnight.

When she finishes cleaning up, Sandor teaches her how to brush Maiden and she watches him closely for signs of approval. Sansa finds the exercise relaxing and is pleased to see that Maiden seems to enjoy it, too. He avoids looking at her as he grooms Stranger; instead focusing on his brushstrokes while silently going over in his mind what he wants to say to her. After he finishes hobbling the horses for the night, Sandor feels ready to have his talk with Sansa.


	12. A Revealing Conversation

A cold wind blows through the camp, sending a sharp chill through Sandor. As he goes about his chores, he cannot help but gaze at his beloved bride, marveling that she belongs to him at last. The little bird is sitting on a fallen log and looking up at the millions of stars blanketing the night sky with a huge smile on her face. He is happy to note she looks more relaxed and contented than he has seen her since he arrived with King Robert’s retinue in Winterfell. Making Sansa his wife seems too good to be true for the scarred man who long ago stopped expecting to receive anything in life.

Sansa shivers, noticing the chilly wind too; her years in the north have taught her how to read the weather very well. Holding her hands out in front of her, she easily recognizes the air is filled with moisture. “Husband, I believe a large storm is coming tonight and it should be here soon, maybe even before midnight.”

Smelling the air, Sandor grunts in agreement, putting extra stones in the fire before making his way over to Maiden and Stranger. Untying the horses’ hobbled legs, Sandor leads them under a wide crag where they will be sheltered and away from the trees. After Sandor finishes his chores, he carries the hot stones into their shelter and smothers the campfire. "Little bird, let's go inside...we need to have us a talk," Sandor says gravely.

Suddenly apprehensive, Sansa’s mind races with questions as she walks into their shelter. _What could be wrong? What had happened between them earlier wasn't that terrible...was he still upset? He didn't seem upset at dinner...did I not please him as a woman? Does he regret our marriage already?_   Sansa sits down, subconsciously wringing her hands as she waits for his words.

Puzzled by her abrupt change in demeanor, Sandor pauses and stares at her a moment before beginning to speak. "Sansa...I don't know how much you may have heard about me in King's Landing...about my past, my childhood I mean," he paces, his words faltering as a wave of emotion tightens his throat. Struggling to compose himself, Sandor curses under his breath and turns away, running his hand across his brow.

 _What? Why does he want to know about that? The only person to ever speak to me about Sandor’s childhood was the Master of Coin Lord Baelish, on the day of the Hand’s Tourney_.  "Well,” Sansa speaks low, her voice trembling, "The day of the Hand's Tourney, Lord Petyr Baelish sat down beside me and told me a terrible story about you and your brother. It was most disturbing; did you not see us turn to look at you?"

At her words, Sandor's gray eyes darken ominously; he remembers that day very well, watching Littlefinger unabashedly leering as he sidled up beside her the moment her father walked away. _Baelish was seething with jealousy when he saw Sansa smiling at me...I thought that was the reason he sat down to talk with her._

“Yeah, I saw the both of you. You looked like you wanted someone to help you escape his conversation.”

"You speak rightly; I could not wait for Father to return. It was all very unusual, his whole demeanor was…disturbing. I wasn't sure whether I should believe him or not; in truth I don't even rightly know why he said anything at all about you."

 _Buggering bastard, I should have followed my instincts and kicked Baelish out of the section reserved for the Starks._ Gritting his teeth, Sandor sighs and nods, waiting for her to continue. “What did he say, Little bird?”

"He...well, he said you had been playing with a beautifully crafted toy soldier that belonged to Gregor and...and he had been so enraged that he held your face in the fire while you...while you screamed." Sansa whispers the last words, her eyes filling with tears.

Sandor’s head throbs with the effort of containing his fury; he knows Sansa needs to feel secure enough to finish telling him the whole of what Littlefinger said and so he remains silent. _Fucking Littlefinger...I knew he was jealous when he saw her smile at me but I didn't think he'd stoop this low...I'll slit that sick bastard's neck ear to ear if I ever cross his path again for burdening her with this._

“Why didn’t you ask me about it when I escorted you back to your rooms later that night?”

"He said...he said that all of the knights in King's Landing wouldn't be able to save me if I repeated that story to anyone," Sansa finishes softly, her anxiety escalating with every sign of annoyance from Sandor.

Stopping pacing for a moment, Sandor kneels down to her, and taking her hands in his, he tenderly kisses each of them. "Did you believe him?" He asks her softly, his eyes searching hers, willing her to feel safe with him.

"I didn't know what to think of it...he was so strange, even Arya thought so. She tried glaring at him so he would be quiet or else go away. The one thing I knew for certain is that you wouldn't hurt me and if anything, I thought you would kill him for telling me," she sniffles, looking down at their hands.

Sandor ruefully barks out his snarling laugh. "Well you got that much right, Little bird. Bloody Littlefinger risked his neck telling you that," he sighs, shaking his head. "That buggering whoreson is just lucky Gregor didn't overhear him that day; he’d have been dead before the joust was over. Not even I would have tried to keep Gregor from doing his worst."

"Sandor, is...is it true? Is that really how you got scared?" Sansa squeezes his hands, her eyes full of pity. Her tender empathy pierces Sandor’s heart and the man takes a deep breath once more, struggling to control his emotions.

"Yes, yes it is, Sansa, and I'd sure as bloody hells like to know how Littlefucker found that out."

"Forgive me, Sandor but he never said who told him...I knew you certainly didn't. At the time I didn't want to ask. I was just relieved when Father returned and he moved behind us.”

Patting her hands, Sandor clears his throat. "I’ll tell you the truth of it, lass. Gregor burned me when I was six years old...I've never spoken of it until now. I had a beautiful sister, Sarah...she was three years older than me and she took care of me while I recovered." He smiles briefly at the thought of her. "She used to make up funny songs to sing to me when the pain would become unbearable..."

Nodding sadly, Sansa squeezes his hands, urging him to continue. Clearing his throat, Sandor swallows hard and draws in a deep breath before going on. "She...she died, when I was nine, just before her twelfth nameday. She fell down the stairs to her death; an accident, my parents said. But I knew. I knew they were lying, the same way they lied about my burns to the bloody maester." Sandor snarls bitterly.

“I am sorry, my love,” Sansa whispers sadly while rubbing his hands soothingly.

"Not long after, my mother died, and my father three years after her. No one would tell me what happened but I always knew in my heart Gregor was somehow responsible for their deaths." Sandor spits out, his eyes darkening with fury. Stepping away from Sansa suddenly, Sandor clenches his fists in fury, turning his back to her so she cannot see his rage.

 _My poor, beloved Sandor._   Sansa closes her eyes, trying to process the horror of his words. She always imagined his scars must have a fearsome story behind them, but the level of suffering he has endured at the hands of his own flesh and blood is unimaginable. _Gods help him...he needs you now more than ever_ ,  she prays silently, feeling the rage pouring off of his body. His wrath is almost palpable, as though speaking of his past have given life to his fury.

Sansa offers no words of consolation, neither does she reach out to her troubled husband. Having experienced losing a parent in an untimely and unjust death at the hands of a monster has taught her there are no words, no actions to heal such a profound level of pain and suffering, so instead she prays silently as Sandor broods while staring outside at the weather. _Please Gods...hear me, give me the words he needs to hear now._

A brilliant flash of lightning lights up the sky followed by sound of thunder rumbling off in the distance, breaking the mood. Sandor lowers his head and sighs deeply before turning to face her once more. "Seven save me, I...I can't go through that again. I can't do it...I can't lose anyone else I love," Sandor chokes out bitterly.

Sansa's eyes fill with tears, finally comprehending what her husband is trying to tell her. "You...you're afraid you'll lose me. Now that we're married and truly family to each other, you're afraid you will lose me just as you lost your family," she whispers. Sandor nods and runs his hands through is hair, refusing to meet her eyes. “Aye, you have the right of it, wife.”

 _Does he mean to leave? No, no, no; it is unthinkable; he would not do that-would he?_   "Do you...do you mean to leave me before something bad happens and you lose me?” Sansa gasps out, weeping the words in fear.

Sandor snaps his head up and rushes over to her; kneeling down, he hurriedly takes her in his arms. "No! Bloody hells…no, Little Bird I'm not going to leave you. Shh, don't cry love...bugger me, I didn’t mean I would leave you, Sansa, you must believe me," he swears, kissing away her tears as Sansa sobs in relief.

"Forgive me, wife, I didn't mean to scare you. Look at me: I will never, EVER leave you. I swear it on every one of your fucking gods and on my sister’s grave," Sandor growls low, holding her chin firmly, all the while thinking his beloved looks more like her namesake than ever, like a trembling, scared little bird who tumbled out of its nest.

“Tell me you trust me, Sansa; tell me you know I will never leave you,” Sandor gently wipes away her remaining tears with his thumb and, lifting her gently into his lap, he wraps his arms around her tightly.

“I…I do believe you, Sandor; it just seemed like that is what you meant.”

"Forgive me, Little bird, I'm not good with words. The whole reason I'm telling you this because I think you...you deserve to know why I reacted like I did when you brought up your family."

"Sandor, my love, I do understand now... it isn't so different from the way I feel. Having watched my father executed...the beatings I received from the knights...or the way those men hurt me in King's Landing-it has all been so very traumatizing and I well know we both have inner scars from our respective sufferings. You and I both have so much to heal and we will, together," she muses, lifting her hand to stroke the burned side of his cheek tenderly.

"How can you love me...when you know what I did to your father?” He asks solemnly, averting his eyes. “None of us knew what Joffrey was up to, not even Cersei. But that doesn't change the fact that it was me that guarded him and pushed him forward for Ilyn Payne, you know. I was a pathetic dog to go along with it."

"You mustn’t say that; I can never forget a single detail of that day as long as I live...but believe me when I say that I never for one moment blamed you!" Sansa sobs, tears spilling down her face once more. "No one, not you or anyone else-could have controlled Joffrey that day. He became an absolute madman after his Father died and if you had disobeyed his orders your head would have been on the spike next to my father. I would have lost the _both_   of you in the same day! It's too horrible to even imagine."

Sandor dares to raise his eyes, finally allowing himself to believe she never blamed him to begin with. The soft pattering sound of raindrops falling on the forest floor soon give way to a steady driving rain, the rhythmic sound filling their enclosure.

As Sansa speaks her next words, she gazes into his eyes while caressing his face. "Please, let me love you Sandor. Give our love a chance. Please, don't let fear shut me out of your heart. You are the only one who has ever loved me for me, without some ulterior motive on my claims or connections, besides my father. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone in my entire life."

Kissing both sides of his face, Sansa tenderly runs her hands through his hair. "Nothing will ever separate us, you must trust me. I won't stand for it," Sansa says emphatically, staring deep into his eyes. "I will never love another; it is impossible, you must believe that." Placing her hand over his heart, Sansa begins rubbing soothing circles over his chest, and he responds by covering her hand with his own.

"I know my family loves me but I am not ignorant of the fact that as much as they love me, they desire power even more. I would never allow my brother to part us, nor will I play the dutiful sister to make up for his mistakes. I am finished being used as a pawn," Sansa continues sadly, her voice taking on an air of determination. _There's a wolf in the little bird after all,_   Sandor thinks, his face twitching into a small grin. _My beautiful little wolf-bird._

"I would sooner never go to my family rather than risk being separated from you. I swear it on my father's grave and on the old gods and the new," Sansa whispers to him. Before she finishes speaking Sandor passionately kissed her, holding her close to his chest. Raising her hands to his face, she feels the wetness of his tears coursing down his cheeks.

“Aye, I believe you would, lass,” he mutters sheepishly.

"No more tears or sadness, I beg of you. We are on our honeymoon and I wish to give you a surprise now," she smiles shyly, pulling away from him. Reaching into her bag Sansa takes out the favor she made, smoothing it out carefully before handing it to him.

"What is this?" he asks, unfolding the material.

"A Northern tradition, dearest: it is my wedded gift to you, to serve as a symbol of my commitment and my wedded vows," Sansa softly answers with a smile, her cheeks blushing as she speaks.

"A marriage favor!" Sandor gasps incredulously while admiring the intricate detail of his house sigil embroidered in black thread on the yellow material. "I haven't seen one of these since I was a boy. My father was of the north and my mother gave one to him on their wedded day. When did you make this?" Sandor asks delightedly, taking note of the little bird fluttering above the dog while carefully running his finger over their names embroidered in each corner.

"I began working on it for you after saved me. When we spoke in the Red Keep...I kept it hidden next to my heart, in hopes that one day we might be wed," Sansa laughs, thrilled he is so pleased with her gift. She never before has seen him so genuinely excited over anything and it is so uncharacteristic she is pleased to see he feels free to express himself this way to her.

"Do you remember how it's meant to be worn?" Sansa whispers shyly.

"Next to my heart," Sandor kisses her softly before tucking it inside his tunic and scooping her up in his arms. "I will wear it proudly and treasure it all my days.”

"Now it's your turn to be surprised, Little bird. Close your eyes and hold out your hands, and I’d better not catch you peeking!" Sandor growls at her as he lays his sister’s ring in her open palm.

"Oh Sandor, how beautiful! I love it!" Sansa shrieks in delight, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him soundly. "Here," he says, taking her left hand in his and placing the ring on her finger. "It was my sisters' ring and before that it was my mothers' engagement present. Sarah would have loved you; she would have wanted you to have it. Let this be a symbol of my wedded vows to you. Whenever you look at it, remember that I will love and protect you forever," he solemnly promises, kissing her hand and taking her into his arms.

"Oh, thank you my love! I will treasure it always, as I treasure you, my husband," Sansa whispers against his lips before covering his mouth with her own. Taking him by the hand, she leads him over to the bedrolls, loosens the laces of her dress and shrugs it off her shoulders. Sitting down on the bedroll in only her smallclothes, Sansa beckons him to join her. Sandor stares at her with his mouth slightly agape and at her beckoning he quickly moves next to her, watching her closely. "I want you, Sandor...I need you. Take me, husband...please," she whispers, lifting his tunic over his head.

 _My sweet, beautiful Little Bird, fairly begging me to take her_...Sandor hardly believes it. He swiftly removes her smallclothes and settles her on his lap facing him. Sansa kisses his lips and then lets her mouth trail below his ear, gently running her tongue along his skin as she caresses the nape of his neck; Sandor cups her face in his hands and kisses her long and slow in return. Sliding his tongue inside her mouth, Sansa moans while Sandor slowly explores her, sucking lightly on her tongue as his kisses turn demanding and deep.

Sansa allows her hands to trail along his chiseled warrior’s body, running her fingers through the hair on his chest and stomach and stopping just above the waistband of his breeches. Smiling shyly at him, Sansa reaches down to untie his laces, her fingers brushing against his hardened manhood and causing Sandor to moan loudly.  
Laying him back among the furs, she tentatively wraps her hands around the length of his manhood, slowly exploring its length with one hand while her fingertips spread his moisture over the tip of the head with the other.

Sandor's breathing grows ragged as Sansa rests her cheek on his stomach, her breath warm upon his manhood before running her tongue wetly over his hardened length. Languidly she licks him several times before suckling the tip leisurely. The feel of her lush mouth causes Sandor to gasp loudly and his whole body begins trembling with pleasure. Roughly he turns Sansa over onto her back, causing her to squeal in surprise. "As much as I’m enjoying this, I...I can't last like this, Little bird." He kisses her long and deeply and when he finally breaks away he leaves her gasping for air, the sight of her red and swollen mouth eliciting another long moan from Sandor.

Quickly he moves down her body to her breasts, kissing and suckling her perfect pink nipples until Sansa pants with desire, arching her back as her body begs for more. “Such an eager little bird,” he rasps against her skin, burying his face between her breasts. Sandor too is panting in desperate need and he pauses for a moment to regain control of his body before inching his way down her stomach and stopping just above her woman's place.

Lying before him so wet and delicious, Sansa’s self-conscious laughter soon dissolves into a long moan and she trembles with anticipation, realizing what her husband means to do next. Reaching under her thighs, he pulls her body toward him, and seeing her exposed in such a way fills Sandor with a new type of hunger. Unable to resist tasting her, he presses his fingers against her folds, opening up her body to him. Groaning, he slides his tongue over the length of her slit several times.

Suddenly Sansa cries out and arches her back into him once more, grinding her hips against him with abandon, her shy nervous laughter forgotten. Encouraged by her heated response, Sandor draws circles around her swollen nub with his tongue. Heat floods her entire body and Sansa gasps at the feeling of Sandor thrusting his tongue inside of her, the unexpectedly intense pleasure taking the young woman by surprise.

Her whole body teeters on the edge as Sandor begins moveing rhythmically in and out of her woman’s place with his tongue. Crying out his name, Sansa arches her back as she finds her release, her whole body tensing with pleasure while Sandor continues tasting her, allowing her ride out her peak.

“Come into me, my love,” Sansa whispers, drawing his body on top of her. Panting heavily, he positions himself between her legs, teasing his manhood at her entrance several times before thrusting part of his length deep inside of her. Her inner walls throb around him and grip his member tightly, sending an almost painful pleasure through his loins and Sandor remains still, allowing Sansa’s body to stretch to accommodate his length.

Crying out his name once more, Sansa digs her nails into his back and at the sound of her sobbing in pleasure Sandor is no longer able to hold back; thrusting more of his length into her in a hard and fast rhythm. Sandor’s movements feed off her passion, her hips moving frantically to match his pace. Soaked with her arousal, Sandor finally allows himself to sheathe his entire length deep inside of her, causing Sansa to cry out in a mixture of pain and pleasure while grinding against him. Ecstasy washes over him, her tight wet center gripping him tightly and sending waves of pleasure surging through his body, bringing a sudden and powerful release slamming into him. The couple shouts their release with abandon as they reach completion together, their cries of ecstasy echoing off the walls of their enclosure.

Gasping for breath, Sansa is overcome with emotion. Tears of joy and relief fall from her eyes and the satisfaction of sharing such an intimate act of love paired with giving Sandor everything at last sates her heart as well as her body. They had made love so deeply, with such utter abandon...she completely expressed all of her love and passion for him with her body, and she loved every minute of it.

Sandor once again lay trembling in her arms, not in a passion polluted with fear, but with being utterly and completely filled up by his love for her. His beloved wife has satisfied his every desire and his mind as well as his body has found absolute fulfillment in her.

Sansa feels his tears of joy falling on her breasts as she holds him close against her body. Longing to prolong their intimate connection, Sansa is unwilling to separate from her beloved husband just yet and instead she cradles his head in her arms, keeping her legs wrapped around him tightly just as she had done before.

"Do you believe in my love now Sandor? Can you feel it in your heart as well as your body?" Sansa softly whispers into his hair.

"I've never been more sure of anything in all my life Little bird. I…I love you, now and forever," he chokes out, overwhelmed with emotion.

Drowsiness soon overcomes the happy couple. Their sated bodies completely spent, they fall asleep in the position they lay after their lovemaking to the soothing sound of the rain falling outside.


	13. Family Matters

The rain lasts the rest of the night and continues falling without letup into the following day. Sandor and Sansa stay in the bedrolls snuggled close to each other, dozing and recuperating from the mental and physical stresses of their escape. Sandor awakens periodically and even though he is exhausted and sore from battle, upon seeing Sansa in his arms he is unable of resisting making love to her again. He knows this respite for them will be very brief and he is determined to make the most of their time of solitude. Sandor is surprised to find that despite the frequency of their lovemaking he never fails to become aroused at the very sight of her and making love only fuels his desire. Sansa never refuses him; despite her own exhaustion she is as passionate as she was their first time together, much to Sandor's delight.

Every moment of their lovemaking serves as a form of healing to both Sandor and Sansa, every touch, every kiss soothing the scarred wounds afflicting each of them mentally as well as physically. Sandor’s tender touch recalls to Sansa what it feels like to be touched with love again instead of having her body used as an outlet for a sadist's rage. In Sansa’s lovemaking Sandor discovers what it is to be loved and desired by a woman out of pure affection and her tenderness calls to mind to his what it feels like to have family and someone who loves him. Sandor regrets how short this time will be for them. He only begrudgingly leaves her arms to find food, check on the horses or throw more kindling on the fire periodically. As he goes about these chores, his heart fills with dread knowing they will soon leave this place and along with it their new-found peace of mind.

Sansa's beauty blossoms in just the short time she has been with him in the forest. The ghastly paleness and drawn expression from living under constant fear has left her face and eyes. Gone are the dark circles under her eyes and the bruises on her body. Her cheeks are flushed pink with health and her skin has taken on a luminous quality. He is delighted to see her eyes sparkle with happiness when she speaks, and darken with desire when Sandor takes her in his arms. The little birds looks completely relaxed and happy for the first time Sandor can remember. The only other time he may have seen her at such peace was when he accompanied the Baratheons to Winterfell. _I will never see anything as beautiful as her,_ he thinks to himself as he caresses her cheek, watching her sleep peacefully beside him.

Sansa awakens at his touch and when her eyes focus her face lights up with a broad smile spreading across her face. "Are you watching me sleep again?" she asks, pulling him close. "Maybe-what if I was woman?" he mocks, pretended to frown as she reaches up to kiss him. "Is it still raining?" she yawns and stretches out, her long limbs exposed from under the furs. "Yes Little Bird," he answers, distracted by her beautiful body. "It's bound to stop soon. You know we'll need to be on our way then."

"I know, our honeymoon will be over," she says, her face darkening at the idea. Disentangling herself from Sandor, she goes over to the bucket to wash up. "Where should we go from here?" She asks as she scrubs her face. "I thought you would want to go to Riverrun or the Vale and look for your family. After that I could take you to Winterfell." Sandor suggests tentatively, noticing Sansa frowns at these options. "Will it be safe?"

"Hell no, little bird!” He barks out, his snarl of laughter echoing in the enclosure. “You forget that I just told the King and his Hand to fuck off and then I ran off and married the King's betrothed? I just spent the last few days having sex with her in the forest.” Sandor chuckles low, deeply amused by her naiveté. “We'd probably have to go north of the Wall to be safe from those bloody Baratheon sons of bitches." _North...of course!_ "My brother Jon is north of the Wall with the Night's Watch," Sansa comments to herself.  _We could go north to Jon!_ In her time in King's Landing she deeply regretted her behavior towards him. She always felt his presence at Winterfell was an affront to her mother, who never hid her resentment toward him and Sansa mistreated him accordingly out of misplaced loyalty to her mother. Once she experienced first-hand what it means to be a victim of circumstance, she felt ashamed she did not treated him with more kindness. _Jon had always been so good to her and Arya-why did it take me so long to see it?_

She thought of him often in his absence and had grown to appreciate him all the more since her family was lost to her. Sansa's face grows serious as she goes about getting dressed, deep in her thoughts. Taking out her green dress, she steps into it, still silent and brooding. Sandor notices her mood and can see a plan brewing in Sansa's eyes as he watches her. Sansa smiles at him brightly, leading him to get up and begin helping her with her lacings. "Seven hells I didn't mean to say we were going north of the Wall! I was just being a smart ass…I've been up there before. It makes Winterfell look like a bloody tropical paradise. They got some pretty fearsome creatures up there, too. You realize how fucking insane that would be?“ Sandor says while yanking her laces tightly, causing Sansa to gasp audibly.

"But why not? It would be no more dangerous than going to Riverrun or the Vale-those areas are filled with Lannister bannermen! Please, Sandor, could we at least consider it?" she pleads; growling, he stares at the ground shaking his head. "What about your mother and brother? Or your aunt?" "I...I meant what I said about my family. I don't wish to upset you, so please don't be angry but I know for a certainty they will seek an annulment for our marriage." Sandor grits his teeth but holds his temper so she will continue. "What makes you so certain of this?"

"The night of the battle I overheard Lady Stokeworth gossiping to Cersei about Robb. One of their servants just arrived from House Frey with the news Robb broke his betrothal to the Frey's daughter and wed a girl named Jeyne in secret." she pauses trying to gauge his reaction. "This most certainly has ruined the Stark alliance with the Freys and it has brought utter shame to their family for her to be thrown over by the King of the North. Losing the support of House Frey and their bannermen will greatly damage his support in the war."

"Tell me how the fuck does that affect us?" Sandor asks, keeping his rage at a simmer with difficulty. He has only been with her a week and already is sick and tired of hearing about her duty to the Starks and their fucking war. "Well, as eldest daughter it would be considered my... duty to make amends by marrying another Frey in his stead," Sansa winces, waiting for the inevitable explosion as Sandor digests this information. "He's a low-life bloody coward if he expects his little sister to clean up his mess for him," Sandor curses and he clenches his fists. He takes several deep breaths and without a word picks up his sword and goes outside. Sansa hurries to the mouth of the enclosure and watches as Sandor hacks the nearest sapling to pieces all the while shouting and cursing at the top of his voice, oblivious to the pouring rain in his rage. She knew he would react badly and instead of trying to calm him she decides to wait out his anger by cleaning up their shelter.

About an hour later Sandor returns, soaked to the bone but considerably calmer. After slashing up several trees he worked off his remaining anger by cutting wood and caring for the horses. Sansa brings a blanket over to him and gently begins drying him off without a word. Quietly he allows her ministrations and breaks the tension by joking, "I should have brought a bar of soap out there, damn me!" Sansa laughs and hugs him close before bringing out dry clothes for him. After he dresses she takes her brush out of the bag and underneath she discovers a mysterious jar of herbal tea Shae had given her. _Maybe Sandor would like some, it might warm him up at least_. Returning to Sandor she hands him the jar as she begins to carefully brush his long black hair, thinking it might sooth him. He relents to her gentle treatment with a sigh. "Do you know what kind of tea this is? I don't recognize the aroma. Shae left it for us. I guess she thought it might help keep us warm on chilly nights."

Sandor unscrews the jar and inhales the scent, then doubles over and laughs long and hard. Sansa asks, "What do you find so funny about tea?" which sends Sandor into another wave of laughter. When he regains his composure, he hands it back to Sansa. "You really are an innocent little bird, you know that? Your handmaiden is a smart one, she is. If I ever seen her again I'll reward her well for this. That's moon tea, Sansa." _Moontea? He seems to think I should know what it was but I have never heard of moon tea before._ Not wanting Sandor to think she is stupid, Sansa just smiles at him and turns away. Noticing her uncomfortable smile and questioning look, Sandor draws her close and pulls her down into his lap. "Sansa honey, don't you know what this is for? You drink this to prevent pregnancy. I'm surprised you missed learning about this little slice of life spending so much time with Cersei."

 _There is a tea that can prevent pregnancy?_ This is new and shocking information to Sansa. "Well my mother left before...well, before she explained a great deal of womanly things to me," she replies, her smile faltering. _Wait a minute...._ "How do you know about this?" she demands, frowning at him. Sandor coughs, then says, "Little Bird, you know I was a grown man with needs long before I ever met you."

"Of course I know that, I’m not stupid,” she grumbles, feeling herself growing angrier by the minute.

 _Obviously her mother didn't educate her on men's behavior, even with a bastard living at home with the family._ Sandor recognizes he should tread lightly. "Well, I uh, I frequented Littlefinger's establishments and didn't want any unplanned little Cleganes running about, so..." he pauses to get his wording straight, noting the look on Sansa's face. _Now I know how she feels, damn me. I guess it's only fair_ , he thinks with a chuckle; Sansa doesn’t appreciate his laughter.

"You really mean you frequented Littlefinger's brothels?" she tries to sound calm but hears her voice raise as she spits out the last word.

 _Uh, oh...careful Dog._ "Well yes, little bird...I never claimed to be a bloody septon, you know. It was either this or spill my seed on the ground and I usually was with...those kind of women too infrequently to be counted on for that." Sandor looks at her sheepishly and sees Sansa's mouth is agape and her face is flushed with anger. "I carried this with me and always made sure the...women I visited drank some before I left, just to make sure none of them showed up at the castle with some brat, claiming it was mine." Sansa grits her teeth, glaring at him. _This is fast becoming a dangerous conversation._

"And why would they do that?" Sansa chokes out her question. _What brothel woman in her right mind would admit in front of everyone at the castle she has a child resulting from what she does for a living?_

"Well even though I took no vows, a member of the Kingsguard isn't supposed to have a...woman, any woman, or children. Some enterprising whore might have thought one day it would be a good way to squeeze a few extra stags out of me. I wasn't about to let anyone ruin the good thing I had going there." Irate, Sansa huffs at his words. "Where did you get this tea?" Sandor groans inwardly; it is unbelievable he is actually talking about whores with his little bird.

"Littlefinger, uh, he runs high-end places so he makes sure his girls always have some on hand. Knocked up whores are bad for his business and cost him money, you know."

Sansa glares at him. ”Knocked up?” Sandor clears his throat. "I mean with child. I always got it from the maester in case one of them ‘forgot’ to drink it when I visited. That's where Cersei gets it too- she used to drink it by the gallon. I was sure you knew about this stuff."

 _Shae apparently has access to it, too_. Sansa begins to understand why Tyrion brought Shae to the Red Keep. "Where do you think Shae as a servant would get it?" she asks, knowing Sandor will not lie to her. _He gave her his knife to protect herself…did he buy Shae?_

"I never fucked her, if that's where you're heading. Shae was a friend to you and I, remember? Not everyone grows up a Stark of Winterfell. She’s only doing the best she can with her lot in life. Don't you go all highborn now and hold it against her, you hear?" Sandor growls at her, turning her chin to face him.

"No...I would never judge her so harshly." Sandor rolls his eyes at her. "Well at one time I would have but certainly not now," Sansa amends. "Do you think it would be wise for me to drink it?" She asks in a low voice, not looking at him.

"Yes...yes I do. Look at me Sansa. It's NOT because I don't want children with you little bird...believe that. There's nothing I want more," he paused as his emotions threatened to overtake him. _Fuck me, when did I become such an emotion bastard?_ "But it's not safe for you or our pup if you are with child while we are on the run. Many women die traveling in that condition. I couldn't stand losing either of you. This way we can wait to have our pups once we're settled."

She smiles up at him, thinking how sweet he is to worry about her even when it comes to this intimate part of life. "Was...was being with those...women like being with me?" she asks, unable to stifle her curiosity about his past experiences. Sandor grins wickedly and barks out another laugh. "Little bird, I don't know what you must think those places are like but I can assure you it's nothing at all like being with you!" He takes in her serious expression and is struck by the feeling he shouldn't mock her innocence; it is part of what drew him to her, after all.

"Brothels are dirty, vile places, even the nicer ones Littlefinger runs. They reek of stale wine and vomit. Most men have to be dead drunk to even get the courage to visit those kind of women in the first place. It's just about satisfying an urge, not love, Sansa. I'm not sure if you can understand that," he continues more seriously.

"I'm not sure I want to. But I'm not mad at you Sandor. I'm not so stupid as to think I am the first and only for you, as you are for me...but it's nice to pretend I am sometimes." She smiles shyly as she looks up at him and in the moment he wishes she was the first woman for him, too. "I just can't help but be a little...jealous, when I hear you talk about those women from your past," she averts her eyes, her cheeks reddening with shame.

 _Sansa...my beautiful little bird, the only woman I’ve ever loved or made love to...she’s jealous of those whores?_ He ponders this information in amazement, it is both shocking and yet powerfully arousing as well. She is so innocent and sweet it intoxicates him and he realizes his careless way of educating her about whores must come as a shocking revelation to her. He kisses her forehead and sighs. "Little bird, you are truly my first and only too, in many ways...ways that are much more important to me than some random fuck. You are my first love. You are the only woman I have ever loved, and the only woman I have ever made love to. No one mattered before you.”

Caressing the contours of her face, he looks deep into her eyes as he speaks. “Those whores were just a fuck to me, that's all. They didn't mean any more to me than the wine I drank." Sandor kisses her forhead, the only expression he can hope will lessen the shock of his harsh choice of words. "You are the only woman who ever made me long for a family and the only woman I ever told I loved. I made you my wife for the Seven's sake! You may not be able to be my first woman but you most certainly are my last."

He takes her hand in his and kisses the ring he had placed on her finger and then her hand several times. Throwing her arms around his neck, Sansa kisses him soundly. "That makes me so happy to hear you say that, Sandor! I'll drink the tea so we can wait until our family is safe before the time comes for a baby." Sansa puts water on to boil and Sandor adds two pinches of the tea to the pot. After letting it steep for a quarter of an hour, Sansa cautiously takes a sip. "Oh my, this is terrible!" she wrinkles her nose in disgust, shivering, causing Sandor to laugh. The couple is interrupted by the sound of Stranger and Maiden stomping and neighing outside and from his view of the entrance Sandor sees several men fast approaching on horseback.


	14. Keeping a Secret

Shae draws back the heavy burgundy and gold brocade velvet curtains, bringing golden rays of sunlight into the bedroom she shares with Tyrion. She opens the doors to the balcony, savoring the warmth from the sun on her shoulders and face. For three days the rain pounded the roof as she cared for his wounds and after being confined to a sickroom it feels good to be outside once more.

Tyrion winces as the light illuminates the room. His face throbs in pain as he awakens, reminding him where Ser Mandon's blade had ripped into his flesh the night of the battle. Only a few inches closer and it would have taken not only his nose but his head as well. Podrick had speared the wayward knight in the nick of time...it was the last thing Tyrion saw before his world dissolved into blackness. Tyrion knows it is high time he reward his faithful quire well for his loyalty.

"Shall I fetch the Maester?" Shae asks, turning back to him. _More milk of the poppy_ , he shrugs at the thought. "No, I'm tired of being kept in a stupor." Noisy equipment and people shouting echoes up to the bed chamber from the moat below. The warm ocean breeze wafts into the room, carrying with it a sickening stench. "What is all that racket-no, first of all what is that smell?" Tyrion barks before gagging into a rag.

Shae rushes a basin over to his bedside. "Death. It lingers in the air...even the rain could not wash it away. The battle may be over but its shroud is still over King's Landing. Your nephew is forcing the peasants to dredge the bottom of the moat and bury the dead." Tyrion laughs humorlessly, "Is that his idea of a reward for the smallfolk staying in King's Landing after the battle?"

"Your crocodiles could not finish all of the men that fell into the moat," she shivers involuntarily. "Lady Sansa has been missing since that night as well. In her room the guards found signs of a struggle and her balcony was covered in blood. The remains of two bodies have been found in the moat along with one of her dresses. The armor suggests they were members of the Kingsguard," Shae remarks casually, turning away from him to discard the soiled basin.

Despite his pain Tyrion bolts upright and then quickly grabs his head as dizziness overwhelms his senses. "Good gods! Lady Sansa?! Did she...did she jump?" He knows the delicate maiden had reached the breaking point, having suffered so much in her brief time in King's Landing and he always felt sorry for the poor child. _At least my beloved nephew is now deprived of his favorite plaything to torture...but if Sansa is indeed dead, all hopes of Jamie being returned to them are lost._ His stomach heaves at the thought and he empties the contents of his stomach into the basin again as Shae hurries over to him. When he recovers, she gently washes his face off with a cool rag and helps him sip on a little wine to settle his nerves.

"No, that was my first question as well. It seems she was struggling with someone and fell over the edge of the balcony. They found a man's boot...one of the Kingsguard," Shae lowers her eyes and turns her back to him. Sniffling, glances over her shoulder to see if he has spotted her deception. "She is presumed dead, they have been unable to find a single trace of her...no doubt the crocodiles..."

"But the last time I saw you that night, she was with you...headed for Maegor's Holdfast! How in Seven Hells did this happen?!" Tyrion shouts, pain flooding his head once more from his exertion.

Shae had carefully rehearsed her answers for the three days she cared for Tyrion and she is well aware of his shrewdness. She does not like lying to him but she has come to love Sansa as a sister. _The poor girl deserves her freedom and happiness._ As much as she cares for Tyrion, Shae has to admit Sansa is the only person to show her affection that did not paid for the privilege and had been the first highborn to be genuinely kind to her.

"Yes, we were there but Her Grace had Ser Illyn at the ready and when your cousin reported the battle appeared lost...I told her to run and hide in her room. If she had only stayed..." Shae allows her voice to trail off for effect.

"I must say, you are reacting quite calmly considering she was your mistress," remarksTyrion, eying her closely. Shae turns to him sharply. "You have only thought of your own pain! I have been in such shock from everything, my Lion...and I have been so frightened for your own life too..." Shae needs not pretend as the tears rolled down her cheeks. "I guess I haven't fully taken it all in yet," she whispers quietly.

Tyrion looks down as he nods slowly. _I'm not the only one suffering. I shouldn't presume she wasn't grieving. She was trying her best to keep it all together for my sake._ He pats the space next to him in bed and Shae quickly curls up beside him as he pulls her close. "Of course, forgive me my dear." She nods, running her fingers through his hair. "Do they know which members of the Kingsguard were lost? Don't tell me one of them was Clegane!"

"No, Ser Meryn and the new one, Ser Preston is his name, I believe? They are the only ones unaccounted for. The soldiers only were able to identify they were from members of the Kingsguard because of the armor...that was all that remained. Clegane never wore that type of armor anyway, I noticed-at least not when he came for Sansa."

"I'm surprised you would notice such a thing," Tyrion looks into her face suspiciously. Shae glances up at him and winks. "My Lion, it is a force of habit from my profession...I am paid to notice everything about men," she laughs mischievously. "And you are very good at it, my dear," he sighs as she carefully kisses him.

"Still, one has to wonder..." _Clegane was merciless with everyone else but everyone noticed he treated Sansa with a sort of gentleness no one had ever seen him display before. Even Bronn commented on it and even went so far as to say if it had been him he would have taken her with him. It would surprise me greatly if the Hound abandoned her to her own devices during the battle, especially if he thought the battle was lost. Still, he is a Clegane, after all...and the Hound has done far worse than abandon a helpless girl._

"Did you never observe Clegane's gentleness toward her?" Tyrion eyes her closely once more. Shae knows she must distract him as quickly as possible. "Must we talk about this now?" she raises her eyebrow suggestively and begins unlacing his pants. Tyrion stills her hand with his own. "Yes, please, try to think now."

"If you mean by 'gentle toward her'-well I never saw him strike her. Just because he didn't beat her does not mean he cares for her, if that's what you're getting at. Forgive me but your reasoning is flawed, my Lion." Shae is satisfied to see Tyrion looks abashed at her words.

She pulls away from him and sits up, raising her voice. "By your standards the fact that men give me money for sex means they love me or want to take care of me-what foolishness!" she scoffs, tossing her head and crossing her arms as she strides out to the balcony. "No, I only meant..."

"She was afraid of him! He is an intimidating man even to someone like me and she was a young, innocent girl! Isn't that why Joffrey always had him guard her-to terrorize her? It sickens me to think of how she trembled in his presence...he had no pity on her. He was the one that told Cersei about her moonblood-that disgusting excuse of a man!" Shae huffs, shaking her head. "How can you even suggest that he would have come for her?"

Tyrion mulls over her words carefully. Shae brought up several good points but he has been a Lannister far too long to take anything at face value. "You may be right my dear but at any rate I'm sure my father sent soldiers after him-once they catch up to him they'll know if Sansa is with him."

Shae nods. "No your father didn't officially send them after him, but there were soldiers going after him this morning. One of the kitchen wenches that brought up the broth mentioned it...she had serviced a few of them the night before. She said Clegane apparently had amassed a small fortune in tourney and gambling winnings. Several of the soldiers chased after him once your father relieved them of duty. After running him down they promised to buy her presents with the Hound's money."

Tyrion chuckles ruefully. "The only Lannister man that could even begin to track the Hound is Jamie...and the Hound has bested him more than once over the years so that is no assurance. And if they should be so unfortunate to find the Hound, it would take nothing short of a miracle for any of them live to tell the tale. Not one of them is brave enough to confront him. He told me and Joffrey to fuck off in front of the entire Baratheon army and not one of them even attempted to apprehend him."

The wide oak door swings open and Tywin storms in with Podrick in tow. "You're excused young lady," Tywin barks while taking Shae's figure in heatedly before turning to his son. Shae curtsies and then goes outside on the balcony, beating the dust out of several throw rugs.

"Father, how caring of you to visit your ailing son on this fine morning! Pod, nice to see you-I owe you a debt of gratitude, you know." Tyrion sarcastically remarks before downing his goblet of Dornish red. "Thank you my L-" Poderick starts to say before interrupted by Tywin waving him away dismissively.

Tyrion and Tywin eye each other in silence for a moment. Tyrion knows better than to think his father is visiting out of concern. Tywin sits down on the edge of the bed with a groan. "Your little crocodile stunt seems to have backfired on us."

Tyrion frowns. "Oh, I am sorry! The crocodiles beat us lions to feasting on Lady Sansa-is that it? Just how many of Stannis' men have you found down there? And while we're at it has anyone found out exactly who put Ser Mandon up to killing me-or has that not made the Lannister agenda yet?"

"That wolf bitch Catelyn Stark will never release your brother Jamie now. Once word of this reaches her, her so-called King of the North son will no doubt feed him to that damned direwolf he keeps!" Tywin hisses, drawing closer to Tyrion.

"Humph, they most likely would have done that anyway, once they heard how their beautiful and gentle-hearted Sansa was stripped and beaten publicly by your beloved grandson, or didn't that thought already come to your mind?" Tyrion rolls his eyes.

Tywin draws back sharply. Maybe he hasn't heard, Tyrion chuckles to himself. "We would have returned her to her family as soon as Joffrey secured his alliance with House Tyrell."

Tyrion laughs ruefully. "You actually think the Starks would believe that? Of course you do, because we are so worthy of their trust. Pray tell, is Joffrey to make Maergaery his Queen as an albeit dubious reward for the Tyrell's support during the battle?" Tywin nods, looking down. "Well, well Margaery certainly is making the rounds in our little war, isn't she?"

"This is no game, Tyrion. We need Jamie to..." Tyrion interrupts. "Yes Father, we all know we need him to get that little monster on the Iron Throne under control." Abruptly Tywin stands to leave. "Watch your tongue-he is your king. I will not speak to you when you are like this...we'll discuss this with Cersei later."

"Oh yes, let's discuss this with Cersei-my dear sweet sister. If you are still looking for the person that paid Ser Mandon to kill me I would wager she would be the best person to talk to first..." Tyrion calls after Tywin as he heads out the door leaving Podrick in the room.

Shae smirks at him as she walks over to his bedside. "Such a happy family!" she chuckles, closing the door before bending down to stroke his cheek, and Tyrion cannot help but smile in return.

His father has a point though. They need Jamie to get Joffrey under control before the smallfolk rebel outright. Next to his father Robert, Jamie is the only one Joffrey won't disobey...it is imperative he return to the family as quickly as possible for all concerned.

"Pod, come here. Have any of the squires mentioned seeing Clegane leave King's Landing?"

"No, as a matter of fact he didn't even take his own squire. He did take his second warhorse with him, though." Tyrion sits bolt upright. "He did?"

"Yes, her name is Maiden. She's a good warhorse but nowhere near as mean as Stranger. His squire says he uses her to carry his extra weapons and armor in battle." Tyrion frowns. _Sansa Stark riding a warhorse doesn't seem very likely at all_.

Shae can see he is deep in thought. "One of Littlefinger's girls told me he has a bastard in Dorne. Maybe he went there," she casually comments, all the while beating the rug outside, averting her eyes to hide her deception. Poderick's mouth falls agape as he realizes Shae's true profession.

"In Dorne? That doesn't sound right. He's the same age as Jamie and came to us a teenage boy. I've never known him to leave King's Landing or Casterly Rock unless it was with us."

"All men have secrets. If you fuck enough women some of them will give you presents," Shae laughs, winking at Podrick. "True enough my dear, but Dorne?" he asks incredulously.

"Every whore in the Seven Kingdoms knows what happened to Gregor Clegane's wives as well as his bastards. The word around King's Landing is that if you have a bastard by a Clegane, you better hide if you want to live to raise it."

Shae smiles at Tyrion. "She's a smart one to get as far away from here as possible. He has the means to care for a child. Maybe his change of heart in battle made him want to give up his way of life, settle down and raise his child. It's been known to happen. There can't be that many women-whores or not-willing to take him."

Tyrion thinks it over. The very idea that the Hound had a bastard in Dorne is shocking-could it be true? "Ask Littlefinger. I'm sure he knows all about it though it's bad for his business to make such inquiries. You'll be lucky if any of his girls will have you at any price after that," she laughs merrily to hide her discomfort.

Shae's point is well taken; he is on thin ice with Baelish as it is. "Indeed. We'll see what those soldiers say when they return. If Sansa is with him they will be bound to remember her."

"The milk of the poppy has weakened your mind. If by some miracle your paranoia pays off and she is indeed alive, no doubt those soldiers will rape and kill her should they manage to kill the Hound first," Shae shakes her head as she gathers the linens.

His thinking is rather fuzzy, he has to admit. Tyrion heard the way the men all spoke of her, especially after Joffrey had her stripped bare in court. What Shae said is true; Sansa's beauty even caught Bronn's attention. "I certainly can't spare my men to go all the way to Dorne in search of the Hound. Podrick, find out which way those men went. Send Bronn with a message bearing my seal that they are to return at once-and if they have found the Hound and the Stark girl is with them she is to remain unharmed, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, m'lord," Podrick bows slightly before leaving the room. Shae sits down to feed Tyrion his broth. "I'm sure it's a wild goose chase my Lion, but if it makes you feel better..." Shae whispers as she kisses his neck. Tyrion replies, "The Hound can do as he likes. He'll have enough bounty on him as it is. But I must know for myself if she is with him." Satisfied, Shae snuggles up to him and resumes unlacing his pants, determined he will not think on it anymore.


	15. Alliances and Escape

Shae sneaks out of the Red Keep as soon as the sound of Tyrion's soft snores begin echoing throughout the bedroom. Outside the castle walls, the late afternoon air carries the stench of unwashed bodies, slaughtered animals and molten metal from the smith's fire. Forcing herself not to gag as she moves further away from the castle, Shae can't resist giggling to herself, thinking how life in the Red Keep has softened her constitution in more ways than one. Three months ago, she wouldn't have even noticed how filthy the sellsword on top of her smelled or given a second thought to a highborn girl like Sansa. Now the girl's escape and happiness has become a mission of sorts for her, and living easy with Tyrion has changed her outlook to such an extent that the demands of her profession no longer come as easy to her.

Cautiously slipping through crowds of hungry peasants searching for handouts, she pulls her shawl closer to her face and averts her eyes. As she passes the great sept of Baelor, she silently petitions the gods for Sansa's safety, finishing her prayer by crossing herself with the seven pointed star of the Seven. Daily and in many ways, the girl's kindness deeply touched Shae, awakening a part of her that she long believed numb, and in spite of everything Shae still longs to help her. The complacency and apathy of others led her own life towards prostitution, and something about Sansa's innocent kindness reminds Shae of her younger self. Inexplicably, she finds herself wanting to do right by her and willing to risk her secure easy life with Tyrion to protect Sansa where others had failed her.

The New Gods may not answer a whore's prayer but she feels it cannot hurt to try; maybe the gods will forgive her and look favorably on her now for coming to the aid of such a devoted maiden. Remembering Sansa's daily trips to the sept and the godswood alike, Shae cannot help but think even the poor child's gods failed her miserably, making the young woman all the more determined to succeed.

The gaudy exterior of Littlefinger's brothel comes into view, bringing an unbidden sigh of relief; it is common knowledge among the servants Bronn is there on any given evening. Even though he was rewarded Lollys Stokeworth as his lady wife for his loyalty during the battle, she knows his type well enough to know he will never abandon his favorite whore for Lady Stokeworth's simple-minded daughter.

Many years earlier Vanya and Shae trained at the same brothel, and after listening to Shae's story about Sansa, she agreed to put Bronn in a good mood for her that evening as a favor. Covering her face, she hurriedly makes her way inside with Sandor's knife strapped securely to her calf, the feel of the cold metal against her skin giving her courage as the men leer her way, while the smell of stale alcohol assaults her nose, reminding her of former days.

In a secluded corner, she spies a completely nude Vanya sitting on Bronn's lap, stroking his face. Nodding to Shae, Vanya leans down and whispers in his ear before taking him by the hand ; eagerly he grins and follows her towards the back. Shae cautiously sits down at a filthy table, anxiously waiting for Vanya's return, hoping Littlefinger will not notice her. The sounds of customers being serviced fills her ears, sending a shiver up her spine; living with Tyrion has almost made Shae forget the common sights and sounds of working in a brothel, even one as elegant as Littlefinger's establishment.

Within fifteen minutes Vanya reappears fully dressed, winking at her to follow, the pretty dark-haired girl leads Shae to her private rooms and opens the door. Bronn reclines in a chaise with his eyes closed; Shae hands Vanya a golden dragon and walks toward him. The sound of her footsteps awakens him suddenly. Jumping to his feet clutching a blanket to his waist, he shouts, "What is this? Am I getting a two for one today?" His eyes dart between the two women suspiciously and Vanya blows him a kiss before leaving the room, closing the door behind her.

"I need to speak to you for a moment in private...I can pay you for your time if you wish," Shae smirks and hold up a golden dragon. Bronn barks out a humorless laugh, "Aye, for once I'll be your whore-that'll be a nice change of pace for my line of work!" He pulls the blanket closer to him though, belying his discomfort at seeing Shae while in such a compromising position.

Men and their behavior amuse Shae to no end. She serviced Bronn several times and he eagerly stripped off his clothes in his haste to take her, yet his discomfort is palpable now that she stands fully dressed, close to the edge of the chaise. This should make it easier, she thinks to herself, allowing her eyes to travel over his body slowly, making him squirm in discomfort. "What do you want?"

"I only have need of a favor," she speaks low, sitting down on the far end of the chaise, drawing closer to him. Bronn sits frozen and studies her a minute before speaking. "It must be a hell of a favor if you would risk coming out of the Red Keep and fighting the dirty peasants to find me...you want me to kill that little cunt of a king for you, is that it?" he grins, taking a long draw from his wineskin.

"That would be ideal, but that's not what I have in mind this day. You know his betrothed, the redheaded Stark girl, Sansa?" Shae smiles slyly. Bronn raises an eyebrow. "Aye, she was a rare beauty that one and so polite, even to the likes of me. Pity she died a terrible death, poor lass. The King should kill every member of the Kingsguard for failing that child. I'm surprised Clegane left her to them, you know? He'll hack every one of them to pieces himself when he learns her fate." 

"What do you mean?" she asks innocently, raising her eyebrows in mock surprise at his words. "Oh, come now, you took care of the lass every day. You mean to say you never noticed how he looked at her? I saw him the day Joffrey had her beaten-everyone else was dying to see her naked and he went and covered her up-only a man in love does that!" he scoffs. "If I was him, I'd have taken her with me, pretty little thing...she didn't deserve what that cunt of a king did to her. I tried to help her out a bit myself a time or two. I thought if he had a whore he would lay off the young maid for a bit," he frowns at the memory of the outcome of his attempt.

Shae sighs, "Well, I thought so too...my Lion mentioned your idea." Bronn sits upright, grabbing her by the arm. "Would this have anything to do with Tyrion's message?" he hisses, looking her straight in the eyes. "Yes, will you help me?" she purrs, looking up at him beneath lowered eyes while handing him another dragon. Bronn stares into her eyes a moment, surprised by the softness he never noticed before. "Aye, I suppose. You're a good fuck and kind to that poor child besides. What do you want? Out with it now!"

"If you should find Clegan, let him go, please," she whispers low. "Oh so that's the way of it? You want me to help him get away, do you? Does Tyrion know?" he laughs long and hard. "No, no, nothing like that! I never even serviced him...he loves another and is completely devoted to her, just as you said." Bronn nods, his keen blue eyes filled with understanding. "Was the Hound fucking that pretty little girl right under Joff's nose?" he laughs bitterly, barely containing his jealousy at the thought. Anxiety rises in Shae's throat at his words. "No, she's a good girl! He was always respectful to her despite how he treated everyone else."

"Good on her then. She would bring out the good in any man, that's for certain. So she didn't die after all-the Hound has her, is that it? And you mean to make sure she gets away with him. You two plan this together?" he whispers softly, suddenly feeling tender toward her efforts to help the girl. 

Bronn shakes his head while rubbing his temples at the weight of Shae's request. "Please, she's an innocent child, Bronn-you said so yourself-she doesn't deserve what they did to her! No one came to help me, when I was young like her..." she pleads, reaching for his hand, "...Just as I'm sure no one helped you." Averting his eyes, Bronn nods slowly. "You said yourself she was kind and always polite to you...tell me, what highborn acts like that? She's a special, caring girl-don't you think she deserves some happiness?" Shae's lovely brown eyes beg for help, and Bronn can't deny it would be the right thing to do, but at great risk to them both.

It might mean his head, but the girl at least deserves a chance. Despite being Tyrion's sellsword, the Queen awarded him with a lady wife, who also was captive in the Red Keep and suffered far more than Sansa. Bronn agrees the child has been through enough; personally he couldn't give a fuck about Clegane but doesn't have the heart to deny such a sweet girl the chance to be happy. "Aye, gods be damned," he mutters low. "I'll find those bastards that went after him earlier, if there's anything left to find. Those boys are as green as grass. Clegane probably cut them all in half by now," he smirks. "Does she love him, truly-as big and ugly as he is?"

"I know it's hard to believe...but it's true, bless her heart," Shae smiles, her eyes momentarily filling with tears. Sansa and Sandor have something neither she nor Bronn can ever hope to experience. Bronn seemingly reads her thoughts and says, "He's a lucky bastard, then. Wished I had thought of taking her that night." Putting his arm around her, Bronn squeezes her close. "I'll let him go then...for her sake. I have an idea where he would hide her but I'll only alert him...I'll not stand in their way," he speaks deliberately and then draws back, studying her face. Shae, filled with relief, suddenly kisses him on the cheek, a huge smile forming on her face.

"That pretty lass really got under your skin, didn't she?" he chuckles, nudging her. "Yes, I'm "only be a whore" as they say, but I got a woman's heart, despite what people may think," she smiles bitterly and then stands to leave. "Aye you do, and a good one at that...and good on you now for treating the girl right," he says, putting his arm around her again and patting her softly. Shae smiles in return, touching his cheek before she turns to go. "There's more where that came from when you return," she gestures at the coins as Vanya returns to his side. "As the lady wishes," he bows and laughs, tossing a pillow at her before turning his attentions back to Vanya.

Sandor throws on his tunic and draws his greatsword as the riders approach; rage floods his mind and body at the sound of the hooves hitting the dirt. "Hide back there and don't come out no matter what happens," he whispers in Sansa's ear, leading her into a narrow fissure of the cave just wide enough to admit her, then ducks down and looks outside the entrance, his eyes carefully scanning the surrounding area.

Braden, Tierney and four other Riverlanders on horseback appear out of the brush with four Lannister soldiers bound to their horses. "Clegane, its Braden and Tierney-don't kill us now, we're coming into camp," Braden shouts, holding his sword out in front of him signaling his surrender. 

What in Seven Hells? Sandor jumps down off the rocks out of the cave and stalks towards them. "What the fuck do you want? I'm on my honeymoon, you buggering bastards. I paid good coin for my privacy!" he growls, unsheathing his short sword with his left hand as he spies the Lannister soldiers. "What do you mean bringing these fuckers here?" The Hound hisses, jabbing one of the soldiers in the stomach with his sword; he imagines the Little Bird's terror inside the cave, sending a powerful wave of fury coursing through the scarred man.

Clearing his throat, Tierney slowly moves away from the Hound. "You may want to hear what these fellows have to say, Clegane," he says, turning to them. "What was that you said now fellows, about killing him and taking his money?" The elder clansman kicks the soldier closest to him. "Well, boys, here's your chance," he chuckles while the other Riverland clansmen toss the remaining soldiers off their horses, laughing at his words.

Braden loosens the bound wrists of the soldiers and then drags them to their feet. "Tywin or Joff put a bounty on me?" The Hound rasps, pointing his greatsword at the neck of the highest ranked man. "No...no ser. They're not interested in you, Hound...we only thought to..." he pauses, glancing at the other men.

A familiar blackness overshadows Sandor, now understanding the men's intentions. "Fuck your sers-you only thought what? That you'd rob me blind and rape my wife to death?" Sandor snarls through gritted teeth, his face mere inches from the trembling man. Another man speaks up. "We thought you might offer us a little something, just so we'd keep your whereabouts a secret."

"Oh, I have a much more effective way of ensuring your silence," Sandor angrily spits out, swinging his swords at the two men closest to him, his massive greatsword cleaving the first man neck to groin. Staggering backward, the second Lannister man manages to draw his sword and briefly parries with the enraged Hound, only to feel Sandor rip through his ribcage.

The third man's blade catches Sandor in the arm, opening a shallow gash. The pain enrages Sandor all the more; roaring, the Hound whirls around and hooks the soldier right below his breastplate, spilling his intestines on the ground. Deftly blocking the fourth man's blow, Sandor swiftly slashes his throat, panting and coughing at his exertion.

Braden, Tierney and the other Riverlanders gape in stunned disbelief at the Hound's lethal efficiency, the shocking violence of the act rendering the men unmoving, gripping the reigns of their horses. Sandor tossed down his sword, cursing in pain, gripping his arm; he hears his Little Bird gasp inside the cave but to her credit she didn't come out. Braden gestured to the dead soldiers, "What should we do with them?"

"Keep whatever you find on them and divide it among yourselves. Tywin always rewards his soldiers well after a battle and I doubt these men had time to spend much of it. Get rid of the bodies as you normally would," he mutters, nudging one of the soldiers with the toe of his boot. Tossing Tierney a bag of coin, he growls low. "Many thanks for your loyalty".

"Always glad to help Sandor. Damned if you don't beat all!" Braden shakes his head, awestricken with Sandor's fighting skills. "We'll take these away before your bride sees them-the wolves will eat well tonight!" The huge clansman laughs, turning to the other men.

After the men ride away, Sandor turns back to the crag as Sansa rushes to meet him, the color draining from her face as she catches sight of the blood pouring out of his arm. Fear gripped her heart the entire time he was outside, the clashing of steel simultaneously crowding her mind with terror; now the sight of his wound sends the fragile young woman into a state of panic. "I'm alright, Little Bird, it's a clean-cut and not very deep," he says softly, trying in vain to hide his pain. "Gods...I need wine."

"Who were those men?" Sansa's voice trembles, struggling to regain control of her emotions. Running to her bag, Sansa tears her southern dress into long strips for bandages. When she is finished, she then gently pours wine over his arm, dabbing the wound carefully. "Some Lannister bastards looking to rob me is all-said Tywin's not even looking for me. I don't think they even knew anything about you."

Sighing deeply, Sansa relaxes as she continues deftly wrapping his arm. After examining him closely, she says warily, "It's not too deep but it should be stitched up just the same. Our maester showed me how to do it for my brothers; do you have any needles or thread?"

"Fuck, girl, you mean to sow me up? There's not a chance in the Seven Hells of that happening!" Ignoring his growling, Sansa helps him out of his shirt and hands him the flask. "Please, my love, I don't want to risk infection...I promise to be careful," she says softly, soothingly stroking his chest with her fingertips. The tenderness and care she shows overwhelm him and so Sandor relents, gesturing toward his saddlebags. After pouring wine over the needle and thread, she delicately begins sewing the wound, carefully examining her work after each stitch and Sandor responds to the pain with shouting and cursing, scaring his Little bird and causing the overwrought girl to burst into tears. "Oh, fuck me, I'm sorry Little Bird," he mutters, kissing her soundly before allowing her to continue her work.

Sansa runs her fingertips along the wound, checking her stitches carefully, biting her lip in concentration. "You'll be in pain for a bit, my love, but it should heal nicely, thank the Gods." Unable to resist he pulls her to him, nibbling on her perfect mouth before devouring her in a long slow kiss. Gasping, Sansa stares at him, slightly dazed at his passionate display; Sandor grins wickedly at her and sets her back on her feet carefully. "Don't fret my beautiful Little bird. I've been hurt much worse, believe that. We can't stay here any longer Sansa; in fact we need to move tonight."

Sansa nods sadly; she knew it would be necessary as soon as she heard the riders. A deep shadow of regret falls over her heart at the sound of his words; she was just getting comfortable and beginning to enjoy her freedom. The honeymoon is over now...I guess this is our life from now on, hiding, watching our backs, stitching up wounds...She thinks sadly, her heart aching painfully as she replays the past few days of happiness they enjoyed in her mind.

Silently she begins gathering their belongings, averting her eyes from Sandor as she works. Reaching out to her, Sandor begins, "It won't always be this way Sansa, I swear it. One day, we'll find a secure place to stay. You believe me, Little bird?" he asks, tilting her chin up so she will look him in the face.

Her eyes fill with tears, "Yes...yes I do. I don't mean to seem ungrateful, but I just wish...I wish they would leave us alone, is that too much to ask?" she whispers as he tenderly brushes the tears from her cheeks with his thumb. "It's gonna be alright," he pats her as she snuggles into his chest. The entire situation is hard on her and Sandor holds her close, willing her to feel secure with him.

Poor Little bird, everywhere they go there seems to be a new threat to her newfound freedom. Sansa was only now starting to relax with him; she recently started to sleep the night through without being troubled by nightmares. Resting his chin in her hair, he feels her body relax in his arms.

Burying her face in his skin, inhaling the warm musky scent of him, Sansa's raw emotions are soon soothed by his touch. "Where will we go?" she asks quietly. "We'll go deeper into the forest tonight, then head on north in the morning, alright?" Nestling even closer to him, she remains silent, absently stroking circles on his back.

In no time, their belongings are packed and the horses ready to leave as dusk falls over the forest. Sandor lifts her on Stranger before climbing up behind her, watching as Sansa glances back at the shelter with a sad smile one last time. "We were so happy here; I hope we will return one day," she sighs, snuggling down in his arms. Kissing her on the top of her head, Sandor whispers, "Me, too, Little Bird." Spurring Stranger in the flanks, the couple travels deeper into the forest, leaving behind their glimpse of happiness.


	16. An Unseen Enemy Strikes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was rewritten as of 4/10/13.
> 
> The model for the Riverland healer Erik here is Lakota Sioux medicine men who serve as both healers and holy men. This is why Sandor concludes the success Erik had treating Sansa may also have involved the gods.

The orange glow of late afternoon settles over the forest as Stranger cautiously climbs the rocky granite ridge far above their former camp. Slowly they ascend higher into the foothills and Sandor draws the reigns tightly to control the war horse's movements. With her years of training, Maiden easily kept pace with Stranger, closely following in his steps on the trail.

Worry clouds Sandor's thoughts as he maneuvers the horses. despite his efforts to engage her, Sansa has barely spoken a word since they left. Thinking she is upset their honeymoon ended abruptly, Sandor continues trying to get her to open up, pointing out various sites he believes would interest her. When still she doesn't respond to him, Sandor tries a different approach, making light jokes and needling her. Giving only the briefest comments, Sansa remains uncharacteristically quiet during their travel.

The arrival of the Lannister soldiers obviously frightened her. _She's retreating back into the protective shell she used in King's Landing._ Thinking of the soldiers, Sandor instinctively pulls her closer to his chest and affectionately nuzzles her neck. _By the Seven those Lannister bastards have frightened her for the last time,_ he muses, taking a long draw off of the fallen soldier's wineskin.

In spite of his efforts, in just a few days after leaving King's Landing the Little Bird had once again found her freedom threatened. Sandor sensed her terror inside the shelter at their approach, sending a primal, protective instinct surging through his blood. The sight of the soldier's maroon and gold armor darkened his rage into a blind fury; his only focus on destroying the source of her fear.

Sandor's sole concern is Sansa's well-being, that she feels safe and secure with him. His beloved wife deserves peace and time to heal mentally and physically from her ordeal and in his zeal to protect her, Sandor mercilessly dispatched the men, his brutality leaving Braden and Tierney gaping. _The Gods know those men have seen their share of battle; I must've made a wicked scene to shock those two old warhorses,_ the warrior recalls the men's astonished looks with amusement. _At least the clansmen now understand where I stand as far as Sansa goes; they best not forget it, either._

Growling and cursing under his breath, Sandor takes another swig and releases his tightened grip on the reigns. Silent, Sansa stays cradled securely in his arms, tightly gripping his forearms as he relaxes his hold. His exertions intensify the pain throbbing from the stitches in his arm, bringing his thoughts back into the present.

Heat radiates from the areas her body rests against his own. Concerned, Sandor shifts her so he can see her face; her pale complexion is now flushed bright red, her eyes glazed over and bright with fever. "Sansa?" He nudges her gently, his concern now turning into cold fear.

Mumbling incoherently, the little bird coughs several times before closing her eyes, snuggling against him once more. Alarm quickly gives way to panic as Sandor studies her closely, gently tapping her face to keep her awake. _She needs help, but where in seven hells can I find it for her out here in the middle of the fucking forest?_ Sandor worries, his eyes desperately scanning their surroundings for anything he may use for a shelter.

He noticed she was exhausted but still did not expect her to fall ill with the fever. _It is the wrong time of year for this type of sickness in the Riverlands. King's Landing had the ague plaguing the peasants as soon as the cold of winter settles in._ His mind races back to the day of the bread riots and remembers noticing some of the peasants in the crowd with a similar affliction as he led Joffrey back to the Red Keep.

 _The man about to rape the Little bird._ Sandor recalls his skin was hot and clammy when he grabbed him by the throat. Panic mixed with rage surges in his stomach at the memory and Sandor quickly gulps down the wine to numb his mind. _Shit, those fucking filthy peasant bastards succeeded in hurting her after all!_   At the sight of his beloved bride shivering in his arms, Sandor wishes he could dig up their rotting corpses and kill them all over again for doing this to her.

Twilight settles over the landscape, allowing Sandor to spot the firelight glittering from the camp in the sloping valley below. _The village! I have to get her down there quickly._ Spurring Stranger in the flanks, Sandor yanks him down the narrow path descending to the encampment below, the sudden movement shooting needles of pain up his arm.

Moaning, Sansa begins stirring at the change in the horses' gait. Sandor watches her closely, gently shaking her, "Sansa? Little bird? Come on, love, stay awake for me now." Her eyes flutter open at the sound of his voice. Disoriented, she blankly stares at her husband, trying to focus through her fevered haze. "Are you taking me to see Joffrey?" She asks weakly.

At the sight of her worsening condition, Sandor's fear constricts his breathing, something he has only experienced once before: when Gregor held his face over the fire. "It's alright Little bird, you're safe with me. I'm taking you to Tierney's village-we're almost there," Sandor rubs her stomach as he speaks, the sound of his words reassuring him at least as much as Sansa. Finishing off the wineskin, he tosses it to the ground and curses that he does not have another.

Smoke from the cook fires carries the smell of roasted venison to Sandor's nose, reminding him that he hasn't eaten all day. As they draw closer he hears the sounds of civilization: people laughing and talking, wood being chopped and horses neighing and it brings a measure of relief to the worried man.

The Riverland scouts approach as he canters toward the village. "Clegane, what is it? We didn't expect you to pay us a visit with your bride, you old Hound," chides Dane. "My wife-she's sick; I think it's ague. Those peasant bastards must have given it to her in Kings Landing," Sandor rasps low, carefully cradling her in his arms as he dismounts. The other scout turns and rides back to the chief while Dane hurries over with a canteen of water.

Sandor carefully strokes her face with the back of his hand, coaxing her to open her mouth and drink. Tierney soon rides up with Braden and another man Sandor doesn't know riding with them. "Clegane, this is our healer, Erik." Sandor scowls and pulls Sansa closer to him, protectively shielding her from the other men while he warily sizes up the healer.

"It's alright, Clegane," Braden says softly, "Erik can help her and he has medicine."

Sandor scoffs, glaring Erik's direction, "Medicine...healers humph," Having been burned at age six, Sandor knows all about healers: his parents spent a small fortune on so-called treatments for him, trusting that diligent use would save him from being scarred by Gregor.

His beloved sister spent hours faithfully bathing his burns each day, singing softly as she applied a in a wide array of smelly ointments and potions but to no avail.  Despite the wine his anger burns in his throat at the memory. _A fuck lot of good it did me, too_. _Bugger that nonsense._ "I don't believe in your fucking gods or your healers," Sandor growls low, wrapping Sansa's blanket around her tightly as he speaks.

One look at Sandor's face tells the men all they need to know about how he arrived at his current opinion of the gods and healers. The chief intimately understand him for he lost his own wife and young son several years back and has not been the same since. "We're not asking you to believe in anything, Sandor. Listen to me: Erik uses herbs our people have trusted for a thousand years as his father did before him. I've gone to his family and used their remedies myself since I was a boy. Trust me; he can help her get well. Sandor, let him try for your young wife's sake," Tierney pleads with him gently.

Sansa's fevered cheeks contrast sharply with the ghastly paleness of her pallor in the firelight and the heat pouring off her skin now feels even hotter to Sandor than before. Pausing for a minute he purses his lips together, nodding his consent and resigning to allow the healer to check her. Tierney observes the change in his demeanor and nods to Braden. "One of our men died after being thrown from his horse several days ago. His cabin is empty, over by the tree line. You and your wife may stay there until she recovers."

Braden leads Sandor carrying Sansa and Erik inside the cabin, which is sparsely stocked but tidy and warm nonetheless. Erik sets down his medicine bag and motions for Sandor to lay her on the bed. "Undress her, please. I need to check her skin for spots."

 _He wants to look her over-undressed? He has a pair on him, that one._ Sandor barks out a threatening laugh, "The Seven hells you will! No man is gaping at my wife. Go on outside and I'll do it myself." Tierney grunts in agreement, gesturing to the men to follow him outside; once they are gone, Sandor quickly unties her gown and carefully examins her skin for blemishes. _No spots anywhere; that must be a good thing. Hang in there, Little bird._

Dressed in only her shift and smallclothes,Sansa begins shivering violently; Sandor completely covers her in blankets before allowing the men back inside. "No spots on her but she burns with fever," Sandor says low. Erik nods thoughtfully and presses his hand to her forehead and then kneels down close to her chest, listening to her breathing. "She has fluid in her chest. It must come out," Erik says. "She also needs to break the fever."

Producing a pouch filled with bark from his bag, Erik hands it to Sandor who sniffs the contents while eying him suspiciously. "Willow bark tea; she needs lots of it. It will break the fever. Make sure she drinks a cup once an hour the rest of the night." Erik explains quietly. "And this is mustard powder mixed with clay. As fair as the lass is, it will turn her skin bright red but it won't burn her.  Make a paste and smear it over her front and it will break loose the fluid in her chest."

"We have a hot springs up a ways. Braden, send a man to fill a pail and bring it back here. Sandor, you must boil it first and then feed her a cup every two hours. It smells bad but it will cure her chest cold. If she does well tonight she may drink it four times a day for five days. She needs plenty of rest and good food."

Sandor only nods his reply, an overwhelming dread robbing him of speech. Tierney pats him on the back, "You have always been a friend to our Clan, Clegane; you may stay as long as you need. You are under the Clan's protection, we will not allow anyone to harm the two of you. I will check back with you during the second watch with a wineskin for you, lad."

Struggling for words, Sandor finally rasps out, "Make that a wineskin _now_. Thank you men, for everything." Cold fear gnaws at him as he stares into Sansa's fevered face. He was so focused on protecting her from the Baratheons and Lannisters, it never occurred to him he may lose her to illness. Sandor reaches for a money pouch in his saddlebag and Tierney shakes his head and waves the money away with his hand.

Shivering, Sansa restlessly tosses and turns while moaning in pain. _She was fine earlier-how is it possible for things to change so much in such a short span of time?_   Sandor's heart aches at the pitiful sight before him while horrible scenarios assault his mind, and Sandor quickly forces his thoughts elsewhere.

Turning away from her, he readies the medicines on the table while memories of the past few days play before his eyes. Only yesterday he peacefully passed the morning watching her sleep in his arms. Making love to her throughout the night before was the sweetest feeling he has ever known and for a moment he actually allowed himself to believe the gods had blessed him with love at long last.

 _But it had only been a trick, another cruel jape of the gods at my expense. I have only just recently known her love and now it might be torn away from me,_ he shivers involuntarily at the thought. His darkest fear is now a reality and Sandor would sooner fight the Stranger himself than live without her. Bitter tears burn his eyes as he sinks down in the chair beside her bed. _Fuck me, where is that wine?_

A soft knock on the door interrupts his thoughts. Erik leads a young man inside with two buckets of water from the hot springs. "What is this shit-it smells like rotten eggs?! You want me to make her drink this?" Sandor growls at Erik, jerking his head back as the sulfurous stench fills the cabin. "Yes it smells bad I know but what gives it the bad odor is also healing. Please, Sandor, it won't hurt her."

 _I'm sure as hell not giving this to her without tasting it first._ Sandor draws up a ladle, smells it, then takes a small sip and finds the water has a smoky taste similar to the burning Wildfire that filled his senses on the battlefield. "If this makes her worse I'll fucking skin you alive like one of those Bolton bastards," he growls low. Several tense minutes pass between the men before Sandor, satisfied there is no harm in it, lights the fire on the stove and places a kettle of water on to boil.

* * *

Searing fever envelopes her body and obscures her vision with shimmering waves of heat.  The throbbing pain in her head intensifies with every heartbeat. Thousands of tiny pins prick her skin and throat and each ragged breath brings a sharp pain in her lungs, choking her attempts at speech. _Sandor?_ She strains, her voice is barely above a whisper and yet sounds deafening in her own ears.

His large hands rub a harsh smelling substance on her chest and back, warming her skin to an unbearable level. "No...no more, please…" she cries weakly, shaking her head in vain. Several men speak at once and out of her haze she discerns Sandor answers them, the low rasp of his voice echoing painfully through her head.

Faces appear before her in quick succession: Shae rinsing her hair, Sandor snuggling between her breasts, her father's haunted expression just before Ser Ilyn's blade meets his flesh. Next, she watches Arya practicing with her dancing master, sees Jon cuddling Ghost in his arms and Robb laughing heartily, winking at her as he pulls Arya away from the dining hall during the feast. Out of the darkness her mother appears and begins brushing her hair before bed while Theon tweaks her curls.

Lady stands tied in the kennel on the Kingsroad."Lady!" Sansa cries out while struggling to sit up, only to feel warm hands gently push her back down again and with that the faces suddenly melted into blackness. Warm air brushes her cheek as Sandor whispers soothingly to her. _What is he saying?_   She cannot understand his words but the sound of his rasping voice nevertheless reassures her and his touch tells her that he is close by. Large hands lift her head and a burning stench assaulted her nostrils as hot liquid touched her lips and meekly she opens her mouth and swallows, sending stabs of pain to her throat. Gently, Sandor lowers her head back on a soft cool pillow. _Where are we?_ She tries to ask, only to be hushed softly by Sandor.

Sansa becomes vaguely aware sweat dripping off her body, soaking her smallclothes. Sandor's voice barks harshly, a door closes somewhere in the room. _Are the other men still here?_   She feels his large hands removing her smallcloths and weakly she tries to protest but no sound comes from her throat.

Suddenly a cold chill bathes her body and provides sweet relief from the consuming heat and Sansa sighs in pleasure at the feeling. A wet cloth sweeps gently over her body, quenching the burning fire that had licks her flesh. Refreshed, a deep drowsiness beckons and finally she succumbs to a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Tierney keeps watch over Sansa with Braden, Erik and Sandor throughout the night. Sansa thrashes and moans in her fevered hallucinations while Sandor patiently administers Erik's various remedies and slowly sips the wine they brought him. Never has the old chieftan seen a man so devoted. _Clegane may not keep to any of the Gods but it is clear he worships his beautiful young bride._ Learning the ferocious Hound is capable of such tenderness comes as a shock to him and Braden alike, especially since the men  witnessed his more familiar brutal rage just hours earlier.

By the third watch Sansa's fever begins to break and the fluid in her chest soon loosens, the sick young woman wracked by fits of coughing. Relieved, Erik smiles and pats Sandor on the shoulder before turning to leave and motions for the rest of the men to follow him.

Once outside, Erik whispers to Tierney, "I think she should recover well. The next few days will tell for certain but I believe the worst is over." Tierney and Braden sigh in relief, for neither man wants to witness what may happen should the Hound's' wife take a turn for the worse.

When everyone leaves the room, Sandor strips down to his smallclothes and cocoons his beloved wife in his arms. Her skin is markedly cooler, he notices, and relief floods his senses. Finally the wine's effect embraces him and the man allows his tired eyes to close for the first time that evening. Sansa reaches behind her, patting his cheek softly as he snuggles against her.

Lying with Sansa wrapped in his arms, he remembers all the times he accompanied her to the sept and the godswood in King's Landing. She earnestly tried to warn him about his sacrilegious words but he only mocked her foolishness at the time. "What hell? What gods?" He can still see the shocked expression on her face as he spat out his vitriolic response. What a stupid bird he had believed her to be for being so faithful to gods who allowed her continued suffering despite the hours she devoted to prayer.

Maybe her gods didn't listen to the prayers of the Hound. In spite of his disdain, they had let the medicines work and they had let him keep his beautiful wife and for that alone he would be eternally grateful to them. He swears to himself that when she gets well he will try not to be so hateful about her praying.

Choking down his pride, Sandor mulls over the situation. He knew Erik's herbs helped her most of all and yet he cannot help but wonder if the gods were looking out for Sansa after all. Begrudgingly he silently offers his first prayer since he was burned, thanking both the old gods and the new for not taking her from him. With tears in his eyes, Sandor drifts off to sleep with his beloved Little bird tucked safely in his arms.


	17. Complications Arise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was rewritten as of 4/10/13.

The unseasonably hot sun steadily climbs high over King's Landing and burns away the overnight haze by mid morning. Bronn slowly walks toward the stables, his unsteady gate and lurching stomach painfully reminding him of his previous night spent drinking. Making his way through the dirty city streets is not the way he wants to start the day.

Vanya's warm bed was cozy and he was loath to leave her so early in the morning. When dawn came, he decided he wanted her again. _The Hound could bugger off and wait a few hours more,_ he thought before Tyrion's squire Pod softly knocking on the door interrupted his plan. Annoyed, Bronn was just about to yell at the boy when he noticed Podrick's expression.

The boy's face went beet red when Vanya answered the door wearing only Bronn's tunic. Mistaking him for a customer, she tried shooing him away but he darted in and quickly handed Bronn a message from Tyrion. While reading his message, he could see Podrick backing toward the door as though they had the plague.

Laughing, Bronn had offered to buy him a whore in hopes it would calm him down a bit. Vanya is his favorite and far too lovely for such a green boy as Pod, so Bronn offered another girl who is a bit plain but was always kind to him.

The poor boy reddened and mumbled something about what his mother would have said before running out the door, nearly knocking Littlefinger over in his haste to escape. Bronn couldn't remember the last time he saw anything so funny and awakened the entire brothel with his laughter. Vanya was a good sport and held in her laughter after Podrick was gone and before leaving Bronn gave her a little extra coin for sparing the boy's feelings.

"I may still be a wee bit pissed after all, damn me," he chuckles to himself, rereading the note to remind himself of Tyrion's orders. "Tyrion wants to see me before I leave, of course," he frowns before crumpling the paper and tossing it on the floor as he leaves the brothel.

Bronn hates the Red Keep, knowing full well all of the highborn bastards look down their noses at him. Only the coin he earns from Tyrion has prevented him from telling them all to fuck off as Clegane did the night of the battle. Bronn would have paid a golden dragon to have witnessed that and thinks he'll buy Clegane a drink for it if he crosses his path.

Littlefinger slips in front of him when he reaches the door. "You best be on your way, Ser Bronn-I am certain Tyrion will have plenty to say to you," he speaks slow and deliberately, waving the discarded note. Littlefinger controls access to Vanya, otherwise Bronn would knock him out cold for daring to get in his way.

"Aye, I can fuck as well as read. That's one thing I can do in a whorehouse without having to pay for it-or do you mean to charge me, now? I already settled with Vanya, you know." Littlefinger's flare for the dramatic aggrevates him but not enough to ruin the good mood Vanya put him in.

Whistling as makes his way to the Red Keep, Bronn ignores the derisive stares of the noblemen. He knows they resent him being offered titles as well as Lady Stokeworth's daughter as reward but he couldn't give a fuck what they think; now he belongs there as much as any of them. _Besides, Tyrion could use a good laugh hearing about Pod in the whorehouse._

Thinking of Lollys, a pang of guilt pierces through his alcoholic haze. Even though she's a bit simple minded, she is very kind to him. _I'll buy her something nice before I head up to our rooms._ Lollys reminds him of Sansa in more ways than one: she also has red hair and was held against her will in the Red Keep. She had been most unfortunate the day of the riots, and aside from their marriage consummation Bronn has not had the heart to touch the poor young woman.

Tapping softly a few times, Shae answers the door after a few moments. When he enters it is apparent she and Tyrion have already been up a while. _Must be buttering him up pretty good about leaving Sansa and the Hound to themselves,_ he thinks, spying the steaming sandalwood bath drawn and the tray of delicacies on the breakfast table.

"Bronn, I hate to have disturbed your-sleep, shall we say? I need a word before you go," Tyrion begins before Tywin barges into the room with two soldiers in tow.

"What's all this now?" Bronn asks, eying Tywin and Tyrion by turns. Shae's taut expression betrays her tension and she hurriedly steps out onto the balcony when Tywin enters their suite.

Tywin sighs deeply, "Where are my soldiers?"

"Dearest Father-what an unexpected pleasure! Pastry? No?" He offers Tywin the tray.

Waving it away in disgust, Tywin frowns. "Answer me."

"I'd like in on some of that," says Bronn as Tyrion passes him the tray. Bronn picks up a flaky confection, trying hard to hide the smile threatening to appear on his face. The way Tyrion handles his father never fails to tickle him although knowing Tywin's reputation he won't push his luck by laughing outright.

"Soldiers?"

"Yes, soldiers-the four that left day before last?"

"What is this nonsense you're talking? Must you ruin this fine morning? We don't have any of your men-we're having _breakfast._ An easy mistake for the elderly, I suppose," Tyrion sarcastically scoffs while he carefully chooses a pastry.

Tywin hisses, "Don't toy with me, boy. I'm in no mood for your verbal sparring. Four of my soldiers went out after the Hound hoping to unburden him of his coin. They should have been back by now. Littlefinger seems to think we should sent a regimen after him."

"Well, then Baelish is smarter than I give him credit, though he might have thought to make his suggestion before the soldiers left," Tyrion settles back on the bed.

"Seriously, Father even Tommen could have told them it was the worst idea possible. It's a fools errand, trying to part the Hound with his coin. Did you actually think your precious green soldiers stood a single chance in the Seven hells of surviving- if they even indeed actually went after him at all?" Tyrion raises his eyebrow at his father. "You gave them the perfect opportunity to desert, filling their pockets with coin and sending them on their way. Most likely they're passed out in some brothel in Flea Bottom."

Tywin frowns and knits his brows at Tyrion, who only laughs before continuing, "Besides, the Hound's brother is your pet. I am sure you know better than anyone what the Cleganes are capable of-why would they even bother? You must be slowing down in your later years, Father. I shall worry for you if this apparent lapse in your judgement continues."

"Spare me your insolence. Lord Baelish feels certain the Hound has taken the Stark girl; he knows Catelyn Stark and fears for Jaime's life should she discover her oldest daughter is with one of our sworn shields. We must find him and secure the child if she is indeed in his possession. I thought I had already made myself clear on this subject, or did that blow to the head damaged your memory?" Bronn glances at Shae; her tawny face visibly pales at Tywin's words. "What is that look? Answer me at once!"

Shae pulls out a handkerchief and dries her tears. "My mistress met a horrible end and the grief of losing her is still fresh, my lord. I only looked toward Bronn because he remembers fondly how sweet a child she was, too. Do I dare hope-you really believe she may yet be alive?"

Bronn grinds his teeth and maintains his passive disinterested expression with difficulty. _Tyrion is sure to catch on to her referencing his thoughts on Sansa._ Tywin turns to Shae. "Young lady remember yourself-this does not concern you and I will not discuss such matters with the help! Really, Tyrion, she must learn her place. See to it before I do."

Pausing, Tyrion studies Shae and Bronn for a moment, "Nevertheless, she raises a good question Father: what possible proof does Baelish have that the Stark girl may be alive? And if he cares so much, why doesn't he send his own men after them? For the Seven's sake, Baelish is deluded-the men found her dress with the crocodiles!"

Tywin nods slowly.  _Despite his rancor, Tyrion unquestionably makes several good points_. He will consider his son's words carefully but will say no more about it, not wanting to openly give Tyrion the satisfaction of being right.

Tyrion smirks, "You must be slipping father, if you have begun trusting Petyr Baelish! Did you actually think he betrayed Ned Stark out of loyalty to us? The man harbors an obsession for Catelyn Stark. It's the worst kept secret in Westoros," Tyrion laughs incredulously. "Ask Varys if you doubt me. He would say or do anything to get in her-good graces, shall we say?  Baelish's only loyalty is to himself. And in case you've forgotten, Clegane told us all to fuck off. I don't think we can rightly count him among our sworn shields anymore."

Closing his eyes, Tywin grips the bridge of his nose. Tyrion is testing the limits of his self control this morning. "If it wasn't for Ser Gregor, I would strip the Cleganes of their lands for his betrayal. Whatever Baelish's motives may be, we need to know if the oldest Stark girl is with Clegane, once and for all!" Tywin growls, slumping into a chair.

"An obvious conclusion Father. I've already made preparations from the moment you spoke of it yesterday. Bronn will personally see to it himself. He leaves this afternoon." Bronn stands up straighter and nods. Tywin smirks derisively, "Can he _handle_ Clegane?"

"Aye, I can handle him. I'm not one of your pretty boy soldiers," Bronn growls, unable to hold his tongue any longer.

Tyrion nods as he finishes his pastry. "Fine, see that he does. Have him send a raven as soon as he finds the Hound."

Tywin stands to leave, never looking Bronn's direction. When the door closes behind his father, Tyrion searches Shae and Bronn's faces for deception, staring at each of them long and hard in the face. "Is there something the two of you would like to share with me?"

* * *

Sandor is awakened by the intense heat returning to Sansa's body. Though it is mid morning, she burns with fever once more. He prepares more willow bark tea and calls for a passerby to bring Erik at once. "No Little bird, not this again," he whispers to her as he begins bathing her with cool water.

"I'm alright," she mumbles quietly. Her voice has grown so weak he can barely hear her now. Erik knocks before entering the room.

"I thought you said she was through with this fucking fever!" Sandor growls at him, his nerves frayed with worry.

Erik feels her face and neck. "This is not uncommon with this sickness, I'm afraid. You must prepare yourself," he says.

Shock numbs his mind so that Sandor can hardly hear Erik's words. "Speak straight to me, healer-is she going to die?" He chokes out.

Erik looks at Sansa thoughtfully. "No, I do not believe she will. Her fever will most likely get worse and then break once and for all. Please step outside with me for a moment."

"I am not going to leave her now," he rasps.

"Only a moment, please." Sandor begrudgingly follows him outside.

"How long has your wife burned with fever? Can you remember the hour it began?"

Sandor's mind goes back to the previous day, "Early to mid afternoon yesterday? She was unusually quiet before that, though."

Erik ticks off the hours on his fingers. "Does a day and a half, two days sound right to you?"

"Yeah, somewhere in there I guess-what's your fucking point?" Frowning, Sandor peeks back inside the window; he doesn't have time for number games while the Little bird is so ill.

"I say prepare yourself, Clegane, because sometimes women who burn with high fever for longer than a day are unable to bear children. The heat somehow damages them inside. I have seen it many times. I am truly sorry."

The world around them slows down for Sandor. His mind swirls with fear; it is all he can do to focus on is Erik's terrible words. "Here, have some wine to settle your nerves,' Erik says, handing him a wineskin.

"The Little bird might not be able to bear children?" Sandor had never wanted children before and went to great lengths to prevent them when he visited whores over the years. With Sansa however he was surprised to find he felt very different. Being with her has brought out in him the desire for an entirely new kind of life. Once he realized she loved him too he wanted absolutely everything with her; children would make their life complete.

"Please understand, I am not saying this with absolute certainty. But the chances of her bringing forth a child are very slim now. I know this isn't what you want to hear, so newly wedded as you are. Please make no mention of this until she recovers. Women take this very hard and it may break her will. I hope you will not deal harshly with her."

Sandor's head snapped back to the present. "Just what the fuck do you mean by ' _deal with her harshly'_?!" His shouting draws Tierney and Braden over to the cabin. "I love her, you stupid buggering bastard! I'm not going to abandon her over such a thing as this-now get the fuck away from me before I break your neck!" Sandor glares at him, clenching his fists tightly before ducking back into the cabin.

"What is it? What has happened?" Tierney asks Erik while watching Sandor storm back toward Sansa's bedside.

"I told him the unfortunate news that his wife may be unable to carry a child after such an illness. I feel very badly for them both," Erik shakes his head. Braden pats him on the shoulder, "It isn't your fault. He's only upset as anyone would be."

Tierney watches Sandor tenderly bathe Sansa's forehead while whispering softly to her. "I would not have thought Clegane capable of such affection, let alone have the desire to become a father. That young lady has brought out an entirely new side of the Hound. Let's leave him to it for awhile."

Lifting her head, Sandor continues feeding her the tea and water from the hot springs as Erik recommended. By noon, Sansa is once again moaning and disoriented and after finishing off the wineskin Sandor removes his clothing and climbs into bed beside her. Pulling her close to his chest, he speaks softly in her ear. "I need you, Sansa. Little bird, I need you to fight. You're a Stark, a wolf; it is in your blood. You must fight. Please don't leave me, Little bird," he whispers to her, tenderly stroking her face.

Several hours slowly inch by and Sandor drifts off to sleep with Sansa curled against his chest. In the mid afternoon he is awakened to the both of them now drenched with her sweat. Anxiously looking her over, he sees her shift clings to her and the bed linens are soaked through but Sansa is awake and alert. Weakly she smiles at him, "I felt your arms around me and your breath in my ear. I heard your words my beloved. You've saved me once again; not with your sword but with your love."

Sandor cannot resist kissing her passionately, clinging to her in relief. "Enough with that, now. Let's get you out of these wet clothes," he growls, lifting her up with one arm and removing her wet shift with the other hand. Dressing her in a dry shift and wrapping her securely in a fresh blanket, Sandor cradles her close to him and calls out to the women outside. Quickly they change the bedding and bring Sansa and Sandor each a steaming bowl of venison stew while a third woman runs to alert Erik to Sansa's condition.

Erik carefully knocks on the door, waiting for Sandor's permission before entering the room. "Come in," he calls. When Erik walks inside he sees Sandor holding Sansa up while he feeds her small bites of stew. She looks so small in his arms that Erik cannot help think Sansa resembles the dolls his wife makes for his daughters.

"She's turned that corner, healer." Sandor rasps, his mouth twitching into a grin that briefly gives his intimidating countenance a somewhat kinder appearance.

"I am relieved to see it. You are an excellent care giver, Clegane-you might have made a good healer yourself."

Sandor scoffs but looks pleased with himself at Erik's words. "Thank you for helping me, ser," Sansa whispers softly, her eyes drowsy from exertion.

"I am glad to help. Clegane, her breathing is now clear; you may give her the water every four hours from now on. If she has aches or pains, the willow bark tea will help with that as well."

"I...uh, forgive my growling earlier Erik," Sandor looks away sheepishly. He cannot remember apologizing to anyone other than Sansa before and the words stick in his throat.

"I have already forgotten it, Sandor. Focus on your wife now, alright?" Erik smiles and shakes his hand before leaving the couple alone. "I will return later to look at your wound, Clegane-it needs redressing."

In his worry for Sansa, he had forgotten all about his injured arm.

"What...what happened, Sandor? Why did you growl at him?" Sansa's hoarse voice is barely audible.

"Don't worry your pretty red head over it Little bird. Get some rest now," he rasps, climbing into bed beside her.


	18. Risks and Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is updated and rewritten as of 4/10/13.

* * *

Sandor awakens at dawn with his little bird still slumbering peacefully in his arms. Running his hands over her body, he spends several minutes checking Sansa for any signs of fever. Her soft skin is cool to the touch and her breathing sounds clear. Satisfied she is still stable, he gently kisses her cheek before rolling her away from him and dressing quietly so as not to rouse her.

Dew covers the ground and fills the air with the heady scent of dirt and pine needles. Starting the day with chores has been his habit ever since he arrived in King's Landing and he uses the quiet of the morning to think about where he and Sansa should go from the Riverlands. It is difficult to map a path without running the risk of encountering the Lannisters and Baratheon soldiers along the way. He originally thought to take her to Clegane Keep but it is far too close to Casterly Rock. Last he heard his brother Gregor was at Harrenhal but if he hears Sandor is on the run he might show up to their family home at any time, leaving this option out of the question.

 _Sansa wants to see her brother Jon but damn it to the Seven hells if that isn't an equally dangerous trip._ Still, he is loath to deny her anything she asks of him; her eyes sparkled with such  happiness at the mere mention of the idea. He only meant to tease her, never dreaming she would actually consider it as an option. When he barked at her for taking hold of such a ridiculous notion, her pretty face fell so suddenly he felt like the worst fucking whoreson imaginable. _The Little bird somehow is managing to turn me into one of her buggering knights in shining armor after all,_ he chuckles to himself as he goes about his chores.

The Vale is his next thought though it is the seat of the little bird's aunt, who from what he witnessed in King’s Landing appears to be unstable at best. It is hard traveling at any time of year but with autumn nearing the window of fair weather narrows with each passing day. The bright sunlight filtering through the trees burns into his eyes, intensifying his hangover. 

_Lady Arryn is reputed to be a bit touched and had tried to kill Tyrion_. He doubts she would respond any differently to him, especially when he shows up as a former Lannister man married to her beautiful, gentle niece. Rumors in King's Landing placed the Vale as the spot her brother Robb inexplicably managed to capture Jaime Lannister. Sandor does not want to go where the Little bird's family might be and no doubt her kingly brother would not take kindly to his fair sister married to a Lannister dog, even a reformed one. Sansa, for all her naïveté, as much as admitted she thought Robb would likely annul their marriage. _Fat fucking chance of that happening,_ he growls to himself, filling the patient horse's troughs with fresh feed as his rage simmers at the thought. _The Young wolf might take my head to free up his sister and look tough to his bannermen._

 After watching the animals eat awhile, Sandor then checks their hooves and mucks their stalls, the vigorous work giving him an outlet for his building wrath. After his anger subsides, Sandor concludes all he is good for is fighting so he will swear fealty to his good brother should they run across his retinue along the way. _It would please Sansa and besides the boy could use my experience against the Baratheons and Lannisters,_ Sandor thinks while carefully brushing Stranger and Maiden. Sandor finishes cleaning up from his chores just as the camp begins stirring with the day's activities. Slowly opening the door their cabin, Sandor yawns and spying his lovely wife still sleeping, he decides to climb back into bed beside her and catch a brief nap.

* * *

Bronn enters the dense emerald green forests of the Riverlands a day and a half after leaving King's Landing. He travels slowly, cautiously scanning the landscape for anything unusual. So far, there has been no sign of the Hound, not that he expects to see any. _A fighting man as experienced as Clegane won't leave a trail for anyone to follow._ The Lannister soldiers were last seen in a filthy brothel in Flea Bottom but no one there could say where they had gone from there.

With only the birds and his horse for company, Bronn spends the time mulling over his final conversation with Tyrion. Shae paid him handsomely to keep their secret and so he did, and even though it was necessary he discovers he doesn't like lying to Tyrion.

"Is there something the two of you would like to share with me?" Tyrion had asked, looking between him and Shae with a mixture of anger and distrust. Bronn knew Tyrion was far too sharp-witted to have missed the looks Shae had given him while he and Tywin had words. He thought maybe if he acted angry enough Tyrion would drop it. "Like what?" he retorted sarcastically. "Are you jealous or what, man? You think I bought your woman? Say what you mean, for fuck's sake!"

"Don't ever try to fool a fooler, Bronn. I saw the looks you two were shooting back and forth at each other. What is going on-do the two of you know where the Hound is?" Tyrion raised his eyebrow at the pair. Shae rolled her eyes and looked away.

Bronn refused to look at him and instead  focused on peeling an apple with his dagger. "How in Seven hells should I know where he is?! We ain't exactly friends you know-last time I saw the big man he was about to get cleaved by one of Stannis' men. That poor bastard was on fire and the Hound stood stock still watching him run towards him, frozen in fear. So I shot an arrow through him and saved his miserable life. Never even got a thanks for it either and after he threatened to kill me the same night, no less. Rude buggering bastard. That's what I get for doing a good deed!"

Tyrion had frowned and conceded the truth in Bronn's words: if the Hound had wanted Bronn dead, he was certain they wouldn't be having this conversation right now. Still there was more to this than either of them were willing to let on. He turned to Shae, "Why does this concern you my dear? How exactly do you fit into this charade?"

“After Sansa's dress was discovered in the moat, Bronn came here to tell me of her fate. I broke down in front of him and he knows I've been sick over it, the poor child. Hearing your father bring it all up again is too much for me to bear." Shae replied, turning away from Tyrion as she wiped away her tears.

"What about the Hound?"

Shae shrugged, "What about him? Seriously, how can you be so jealous after the manner in which you brought me here. i didn't fuck him, if that's what you're asking!" _Good on you Shae,_ Bronn thought as he continued peeling. "I hardly know the man. After all, he barely spoke to me and he doesn't favor any of the girls I know. I still say he went to Dorne after his bastard. I've known many like him over the years."

"As my brother Jaime used to say about himself, so I shall say about the Hound: there are none like him, _only_ him which is why my family employed him to begin with. We all know he cares for the Stark girl, that is one secret he never bothered to hide. Tell me truly-do you know if Sansa is with him?"

"No! I haven't seen either of them since the night of the battle, I swear it. She was such a delicate girl, I cannot imagine her with him alone," Shae looked straight in Tyrion's eyes. She had certainly kept her wits about her and Bronn had to give her credit for the extent of her loyalty to Sansa. Tyrion paused in thought for several minutes, "Alright, let's just say for a moment that I believe the both of you. Where would he go?"

Bronn spoke up. "Well, I know where I would go, into the Riverlands among the clans there. He could hide forever with that lot as long as his coin holds out."

Tyrion nodded, "Yes, he's traded with them for many years,  that much I know from Jaime. If he has the Stark girl, what do you propose I do about it?" He asked suggestively.

"I couldn't give a fuck what you do with either of them. You pay me for action, not words. I only want to get back to my bride," Bronn said without emotion and maintaining his disinterested expression with difficulty.

"Yes I am sure Lollys has quite enamored you," Tyrion rolled his eyes. Turning to Shae, he said, "What say you?"

Shae leaned in close to Tyrion, "I would be happy that you found my mistress alive. She was a good child and kind to me and I am not ashamed to say that I loved her. I would be relieved and I would want you to treat her well, Tyrion, for my sake."

Tyrion sighed again and put his arm around her. "Don't think I am ignorant as to what you both are up to. If she is indeed alive, I’ll take no pleasure in capturing her but understand I need her to secure Jaime. I must agree she was a kind and well-mannered child and if she is with the Hound she certainly doesn't deserve to return here amongst the vipers, least of all Cersei." Tyrion paused a moment, gathering his thoughts.

"Bronn, find the Hound. I doubt anyone excepting Gregor could manage to take him now.  If she is with him, don't risk trying to take the girl by force. The two of you can then return her to her mother and brother in exchange for Jaime and afterward the Hound will be free to do as he likes. Is that clear?"

"Yes _ser_ ," Bronn bowed, ignoring Tyrion's suggestion that he would not be able to beat the Hound in a fight. "I'll send a raven as soon as I learn something of his whereabouts."

Shae held out her hand to Bronn, "Please, if you find my lady, give her this to remember me, will you?"

When Bronn opened his hand he found a colorful sash with a little bird embroidered on it. "Aye Shae, I will," he smiled at this, remembering Clegane called the girl by the nickname after the riots. With that he made his way back to his quarters, relieved to be away from Tyrion at last.

The sound of a wolf howling in the distance pulls Bronn out of his thoughts. He agreed to everything Tyrion had asked of him but if he is indeed able to find them, he has no intention of returning Sansa either to King's Landing or her family despite his words to the contrary. Bronn already dealt with Lady Catelyn Stark once and has no interest in doing it a second time. Yet he knows full well that Lady Stark and her King in the North son will be the least of his worries should he find Sansa with the Hound.

Having shown no hesitation confronting him in the brothel, Bronn has no doubt Sandor will kill him if he tries to take the girl and he sure as hell will never agree to handing her over for any amount of coin. Not that Bronn can blame him: _Sansa is a beauty and a kind-hearted girl, one any man would be lucky to call his own._

Even though he does not love Lollys, she has brought a peaceful gentleness into his life that he enjoys and the experience has taken him by surprise. He feels his own marriage gives him insight into the Hound. If the girl loves him as deeply as Shae says she does, she is well worth fighting for, in his estimation. He would have done it exactly the same way, if Sansa was his woman, and he would gladly kill anyone that came near her and risk everything to keep the sweet girl all to himself.

His horse snorts and neighs several times before rearing up on its hinds legs. Scanning the area, Bronn is unable to locate the cause of the horse's distress. This is not his first encounter with the tribal Riverlanders; he has traded with them on occasion over the years. Aware of their customs as he is, Bronn knows his presence in their forest will not go unnoticed for long. Patiently he waits, knowing the fierce clansmen will show themselves soon enough.

Five alarmingly large men draped in animal pelts appear out of the brush, blocking further travel into the wood. "We are the Riverlanders and you are in our forest. Who are you?" The first man eyes him suspiciously, holding his fighting axes across his shoulders.

Bronn glances around him once more before holding up his dagger facing them, "I am Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, at the service of Tyrion Lannister. I'm not interested in posing any risk to the clan,  that is why I came here without soldiers. I need your help and have plenty of coin to pay for it."

The unmistakable sounds of battle echo in the distance, filling Bronn with a queasy uneasiness in his gut. The five clansmen appear to ignore the din of the fighting, keeping their attention solely on him. Each of them approaches and looks him over before returning to their respective places behind their apparent leader.

The Riverland leader is a huge, fearsome fellow who reminds Bronn of Shagga. "I am Braden. Dismount from that horse and draw near, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. We have heard your name in the Riverlands as well as the name of Tyrion. State your business here. Lannisters and Baratheons are not welcome on our land." Braden still does not relax his stance as Bronn steps closer. Seeming to recognize the newly acquired sigil on his tunic, two of the clansmen exchanged looks while a third disappears back into the forest.

"Hello Braden. I am no Baratheon or Lannister knight, to be sure. I have only recently gained a sigil from the Blackwater battle and before that I was a common sellsword for hire. I hold no fealty to the Lannisters or Baratheons and I am not sent on their errand."

Grunting, Braden watches his face closely. "What brings you here?"

"I come relaying a message from a trusted friend of the couple I seek. I am looking for a fellow soldier, perhaps you have seen him. He is called the Hound, otherwise known as Sandor Clegane. He may be traveling with a pretty little redheaded lass with big blue eyes." Bronn looks toward the sounds of battle, which seem to be drawing closer.

"Never mind the ruckus. Some damn fools from the mountain clans are trying to raid our village and learning their lesson the hard way. Such is a common occurrence this time of year. I don't have time to jaw away the day as you can guess," The fearsome clansman pauses a moment.

"Aye, we know Clegane," Braden finally assents while giving Bronn the once over. "Not sure if I want to help you find him though. He's as tough a son of a bitch as they come. You're a damn fool coming after him with that puny dagger. What do you want with him, anyway?"

"I swore to give him warning: the Lannisters are eagerly searching for him but only because they want to recover the girl he travels with as their prisoner. Would you consider arranging a meeting between us? I assure you he will be most interested in what I have to say." Bronn replies, carefully watching the men.

As Bronn finishes the clansman who previously rode away returns with a stout older man who apparently is the chief. He stands almost as tall as Sandor and he approaches Bronn riding a huge black and white courser with a plaited mane.

"I am Chief Tierney, Ser Bronn. Everyone along this road knows the Lannisters seek the Hound and hardly news worth mentioning to us. You take quite a risk coming here for a 'friend', as you say. Why would you chance us to reach the Hound? Did he steal the redhead from some prissy high lord too honorable to go looking for her himself?"

Bronn chuckles.  "No she's not a wife but a maiden fair of five and ten. At one time she was betrothed to King Joffrey but he threw her over for the Tyrell girl. He is not interested in her return, the little bastard only abused the poor child anyway."

 _Well that certainly explains a lot about Sandor's behavior,_ Braden thinks to himself before leaning in close and whispering to the chief for several minutes.

"You're not here out of the goodness of your heart, ser. Some considerable bounty is in it for you, no doubt." Tierney holds out his hand to Bronn, who promptly fills it with a pouch full of coin.

Bronn relaxes at the friendlier demeanor of the men. "Aye, you have the right of it for certain. The girl's handmaiden is my Lord Tyrion's whore, unbeknownst to the rest of the royal family of course."

The clansmen all laugh. “We heard the half man was quite the hunter.” 

Encouraged, Bronn continues, "She helped the Hound take the lass and paid me good coin to keep her from being returned to the Lannisters. She has tender regard for the girl, who is uncommonly kind to smallfolk. The child was good to her despite being aware of her means of turning coin."

Tierney narrows his eyes at Bronn for a moment and then sighs and nods. "Aye, that she is. A beautiful lass and as kind a girl as I ever met, just as you say. That idiot boy king of yours doesn't appreciate the jewel he had, cheeky little inbred bastard."

 _So Clegane is hiding here with Sansa-now we're getting somewhere._ "Truer words were never spoken, Chief Tierney," Bronn agreed.

"We will approach Clegane ourselves to see if he will meet with you. You will be under guard the entire time here. Make no move without our leave. I have no reservations about killing you myself if you do or say anything I don't much like, no matter who your lord master may be, understand?"Tierney growls, raising his battle axe.

Winking, Bronn smiles and tosses Tierney a pouch filled with stags. "Here, friend; for your troubles. I thank you kindly." Tierney fingers through the contents before nodding approvingly.

As they head into the treeline, a small band of mountain clansmen overtake the group. Stunned, Bronn finds himself in the middle of the fighting, nearly missing the stroke of the broad sword one of the men slashes his direction.

His senses quickly sharpen as the man wheels around to face him. Speed is his preferred battle tactic, making Bronn very dangerous in hand to hand combat. He maneuvers quickly and easily slits the man's throat in a smooth motion before slicing into the kidneys of another.

Turning to the third man, Bronn ducks before Braden's axes split open the mountain man's head, pouring brains and gore onto the ground at his feet. Braden and Tierney finish off the other men and then emptied the pockets of the dead before turning back to Bronn.

"We'll have to fight our way back to the village, Ser Bronn but it looks like you can handle yourself just fine," Tierney laughs, slapping Bronn hard on the back before heading into a nearby stand of dense pine trees.

 

* * *

 

 By mid-morning the sounds of loud shouting, steel clashing and horses neighing awaken Sandor and Sansa, causing the couple to quickly jump out of bed. Sansa staggers from the sudden exertion and grabs hold of the bedpost for balance. "Is it Joffrey's soldiers?" Sansa asks, shivering in fear.

Sandor rushes over to her and eases her back into bed. "No one's taking you from me, Little bird, believe that. I don't give a fuck if it's the Warrior himself out there!" He rasps, throwing on his clothes.

Quickly he buckles on his sword belt and sheathes his swords before pulling on his boots. "Wife, latch this door and don't open it for anyone you don't know," he instructs, kissing her before heading outside to investigate.

 _He's not even afraid; he probably even welcomes another fight_ , she marvels as she shakily pulls the latch on the door. Weak with fear and illness, Sansa climbs back into bed. As the fighting grows louder she pulls the blankets over her head, wishing Sandor would return to her soon.

Sandor steps outside to find the camp in utter chaos. Mountain clansmen looting cabins and stealing horses run in every direction. The villagers fight viciously and standing together in defending their possessions, wives and children against the invaders.

As he nears the corral, Sandor sees one of the mountain men holding Maiden by the reins. Planting her hooves, the mighty warhorse stoutly resists the man, her eyes darting wildly in search of an opportunity to strike.

Enraged, Sandor unsheaths both swords, shouting her name as he advances toward them. The man turns to face him while raising his sword and Maiden finds her opening, stomping the man with a fury and turning his body into bloody pulp under her massive hooves.

"Thatta girl, Maiden!" he shouts, patting her neck and climbing onto her back before steering her toward the corrals. Racing inside, Sandor finds three men dead at Stranger's feet, all bitten or stomped to death in a similar fashion to Maiden's attack. Frothing at the mouth, Stranger chews on his bridle and neighs loudly while rearing, still threatened by the noise of battle.

Outside Maiden nickers in response to his distress. "Easy, Stranger, easy now. Come on, boy, let's get you out there in the fight," Sandor grins at him as he gingerly approaches the angry warhorse. The huge black courser relents at the sound of his master's voice and quickly Sandor saddles him before riding back to the center of the fighting with Maiden following closely on their heels.

Hearing Sansa's weak cries, Sandor spurs Stranger toward their cabin. Riding up at full speed, he witnesses a large mountain clansman breaking the wooden shutters covering the window beside their cabin door. Inside, Sansa brandishes a large iron pot and when the man turns toward Sandor, she smashes him in the face with all the strength she can muster before falling weakly to the floor.

Sandor roars in a fury, swinging Stranger straight toward him and trampling the man under the mighty warhorse's hooves. Stranger continues stomping and kicking the man as Sandor jumps down and races to help Sansa. Maiden and Stranger take up positions guarding their owners in front of the cabin, occasionally taking turns displaying their prowess by stomping the lifeless body of the mountain clansman. None of the raiders dare approach the pair, who neigh and snort aggressively at anyone deemed too close, still wearing the gore of the battle on their broad chests and hooves.

Weak from the fever, Sansa faints in Sandor’s arms but her eyes flutter open at the feeling of Sandor gently shaking her awake before laying her on in the bed carefully.

"So, my Little bird found the wolf inside her after all," he smiles, brushing her hair out of her eyes.

"Are the horses alright?" she asks softly.

Sandor barks a loud laugh. "Yes, love. If I didn’t think you’d faint again, I would gladly show you why we travel with warhorses. Those two proved their worth in gold today-they stomped the shit out of five men! We'll have to find them some apples as a reward."

She smiles at the safe sound of his deep laugh filling the cabin as Sandor reassuringly pats her legs. The sounds of fighting move further off into the distance away from the Riverland camp. "Must you go help the men fight, husband?"

Sandor tweaks one of her curls, "No Little bird, I'm not going anywhere. Tierney can handle those fuckers just fine without me. My job is to protect you, remember?" His words fill her heart with an overwhelming sense of relief and call to mind the day she and Shae tried to hide her moonblood from Cersei.

 _Yes, Sandor has always protected me-from Ser Preston, Cersei and Joffrey, Ser Meryn, even from myself._   Lifting his large hand to her mouth, she tenderly kisses him several times before resting it on her cheek just as she did when he returned to her that day.

Understanding fills Sandor as he watches her lying there, wearing the same blue sleeping gown the first time she kissed his hand-it was the first time she had ever affectionately touched him. He smiles softly at her, caressing her cheek with his finger in response, remembering how that first touch from her had sent him into the Seven heavens.

Love and unspoken gratitude flow between them as they gaze into each other’s eyes, focusing solely on one another. Together they have built an abiding trust and love. Since that day they have become friends, lovers, husband and wife. The world melts away into the background as they caress each other tenderly and Sandor moves on to the bed, cradling her securely next to his chest.

Sansa sighs deeply, reveling in the feeling of his powerful arms around her as she turns to kiss him. Abruptly they are recalled to the present by the sound of loud knocking on the door.

It was Tierney and Braden. "Sandor, those wicked mean warhorses of yours racked up quite the body count today. We may have to make them members of the clan.”

Briefly glancing at Sansa’s pale pallor, Braden continues cautiously. "When you're both ready, there is someone here to see you."


	19. Bronn and the Hound

Still holding Sansa close to his chest, Sandor rasps, "Tell them to fuck off, I'm busy." Braden laughs, "Aye, we thought you'd respond this way." Tierney clears his throat, "Sorry Hound, the man brings news from King's Landing."

That gets Sandor's attention. "Who the fuck is it-soldier or sellsword?" Sansa trembles, tightening her grip on Sandor even as he bolts upright. "No not a soldier; now lass don't get worked up, he's just one man. We won't let him hurt either of you. Claims he used to be a sellsword but earned a title at Blackwater. He comes on an errand from the half-man's whore."

"It's Bronn, he's Tyrion's man," Sansa answers. "Aye child, that's his name." Braden nods. Setting his jaw, Sandor rises and straps on his short sword, "I better see what he wants," leaning over he kisses Sansa before turning to go.

"Oh no, please Sandor, let him come here to me; I am still too weak to ride with you. I want to hear what he says too-I just can't bear waiting for you to come back," her trembling worsens, frightened tears falling from her eyes.

Braden offers, "Lass, if you had seen your man fight the other day you would realize you're the safest woman here. Word aound camp is you're not so bad with a pot yourself." He's surprised she fears Bronn when she is married to the Hound, the man everyone fears.

Sandor speaks quietly. "Sweet, you must calm yourself; this isn't good for you." She is already so weakened he's worried she will relapse under the stress. "Aye, he's fair enough with his fighting dagger for certain. If he wanted to do us harm he sure as hell wouldn't have just rode in amongst the Clan."

Thinking it over, Sansa slowly calms down. "Besides, he's just a runt and you've seen me take on bigger and stronger many times." he chuckles, rubbing her back. "Don't break your heart over it; the men will lead him back here if you want to talk to him too." Smiling he leans down and tilts her chin up and kisses her once more.

"Thank you, that eases my mind greatly," she says, a slow smile spreading across her face. "I meant no disrespect, Sandor it's just Shae was my handmaiden and friend and I am anxious to hear her message."

Sandor clears his throat, "I know, Little Bird, it's alright. Shae is the name of the woman who sent Bronn," he explains, his tone telling the men he doesn't want Shae referred to as a whore a second time. Braden leaves to bring Bronn to the cabin, while Tierney steps inside.

"My lady I am sorry you were threatened today. We will make amends for your lack of protection."

Sansa takes his hand, "Well, no harm was done."

"Aye, but that is not the point lass. It is our tradition; you are under the protection of the Clan, and we failed to protect you this day. We will offer amends for our failure." Pausing, Tierney watches her closely. Confused, she looks at Sandor. "He's waiting to hear what you would like done," he explains. "Oh, well...if it pleases you I would be very happy staying here a while. I would like to rest and get to know you all better."

Smiling, Tierney replies, "As it pleases you my dear. You both may stay as long as you wish." Tossing a pouch full of coin to Sandor, he says, "We will accept no payment for your stay or protection. It is our pleasure to have such kind guests milady," bowing, he closes the door. "You let him off easy, woman!" Sandor frowns, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "We should at least get a horse out of the deal."

Knocking on the door, Braden calls out, "Clegane-he's here." Sandor nods to Sansa reassuringly, then opens the door. Braden holds a knife to Bronn's neck and leads him inside. "I've got this," Sandor says, nodding and pushing out a chair to him with his foot.

"Clegane," Bronn eyes Sandor closely, then turns toward Sansa propped up in bed."You alone Bronn-or do you have the Imp's muscle somewhere?" Bronn feels the suppressed rage radiating from Sandor.

Must be because of the girl, he thinks slowly sitting down. "No, I came alone so you know I don't want any trouble."

"You're as good as dead coming here but I owe you one as I recall. Come to kill me and take the girl back?"

Laughing sharply Bronn remarks, "I've seen you cut one too many men clean in half to try that trick Hound. I'm not on Tyrion's errand; I come at Shae's request- she's got plenty of coin, you know, done well for herself. She sent this with me for you child," Bronn says, handing her the sash Shae made for her.

"Oh, how beautiful! Look Sandor, it has a bird on it!" Smiling widely, Sansa asks. "Did Shae come with you?"

Visibly taken aback by her frail appearance, he replies, "No my lady. Are you alright? Is this bastard mistreating you?"

Braden runs his knife along Bronn's neck, "Watch your tongue or I'll cut it out and feed it to my wolf pups."

Sandor speaks up, "It's OK Braden, I'd have asked the same thing, seeing how she looks."

Sansa gives him a small smile as she smooths out the blankets. "Yes, I am alright, thank you Ser. Forgive me for not rising; I had the ague. Sandor thinks I caught it from the peasants the day of the riots. My husband has been taking very good care of me and I am much better now."

"Husband now, is it? So the wolf tamed the Hound, eh?" Bronn laughs, then notices Sandor and Braden glowering at him. "I mean no disrespect my lady, to be sure. Allow me to offer my congratulations," he holds out his hand to her, looking for Sandor's approval.

Sandor nods once, and Sansa smiles and happily takes his hand. "Shae will be very happy to hear of your marriage."

"Thank you so much, Ser." Sandor interrupts,"Enough with the pleasantries, Bronn. How the fuck did you find us?" Standing with his muscular arms crossed, face drawn into a tight scowl and his keen eyes following his every move, Bronn cannot help but think Sandor resembles a rabid dog.

"Not hard, really-I only had to think of where I would have taken the lass, had I been in your shoes." Bronn smiles, winking at Sansa. Sansa cannot resist smiling too, knowing Shae would have said the same thing.

Grunting, Sandor responds, "Don't you just wish you were in my shoes, sellsword. Get on with it."

Bronn glances at Sansa, "My lady, do you know why Shae is in the Red Keep, truly?"

Nodding, Sansa replies, "Yes, I know...I've known for some time, I would never betray her secret."

Bronn looks surprised, "And it makes you no never-mind, lass?"

"No, though I wish she made her coin another way that was less...taxing for her. She is my friend and I only regret she's been through so much, even though I know Tyrion is good to her." Bronn smiles thoughtfully at her, touched by her kind heart himself; now he understands why Shae would go to such lengths to help the girl.

"You've got a generous tender heart, my lady-it does me good to see it in a highborn. I've come to warn you-the Lannisters are not convinced Sansa is dead, for all her bloody dresses floating in the moat. Tywin doesn't give a damn about you Hound and would've given up-but that fucking Littlefinger won't stop harping on how he doesn't believe she's dead, in spite of those bloody crocodiles. You the one that killed those knights and toss 'em in the moat?"

"Someone had to feed those beady eyed sharp toothed bastards," Sandor shrugs, and the three men laugh despite the tension. "Good on you then, that fucker Meryn had it coming. If I wasn't on Tyrion's stag I would've gutted him myself for beating you, lass."

Shyly Sansa smiles and averts her eyes, reddening as she realizes Bronn had seen her naked from the waist up that day.

Judging by the scowl on Sandor's face, he remembers it too. Bronn clears his throat, continuing, "Tyrion, well he's lived in that family long enough to know better than to trust anyone. At his father's insistence he sent me after you, believing I would find you and report back whether or not you have Sansa. If I find her I'm supposed to send her back to her Mum in exchange for Jaime, and if you helped me return her you are free to do as you please."

"I'd like to see the day it takes both of us to return a maiden. Well, fuck their offer. I'm my own dog now, free to do as I damn well please without their fucking permission. Tell the dwarf and his father I said to eat shit and die, will you?" Sandor growls. "Thought you said you weren't on their mission?"

"Aye, remember I said it was Shae that sent me. Bless her heart, she's been lying through her teeth to Tyrion, crying and putting on quite an act to make him believe she thinks Sansa is dead. She came to me at Littlefinger's...place and told me you took Sansa with you the night of the battle, she paid me well to keep me from telling anyone and buttered me up real good with my favorite whore. Then she asked if I would warn you should I find you. Tyrion's none the wiser; her own man and she knows better that to trust him, cagey thing."

Sandor breaths out a large sigh of relief, "Little Bird, you have any idea why Littlefinger has such a...bug on about this? Think hard, now."

Sansa pauses a moment. "He was a ward of my grandfather Tully, you know-he was raised alongside my mother and aunt. He...well, he's never made a secret out of being in love with my mother. Did you never see it Sandor?"

"Aye, in Winterfell, Jaime and I both saw it. If he looked at my wife like that I'd gut him for it," he answers, remembering the leering way he looked at Sansa. "Maybe he thinks if he can return me to her she'll have him now that my father is gone," she thoughtfully replies, shaking her head.

Bronn raises his eyebrows, "Yeah well that sounds right for him, though no disrespect lass but I cannot see the man as a husband with his chosen line of business outside the castle."

"No, you speak rightly and for the very same reason my mother and brother would not keep his acquaintance, let alone accept an offer of marriage. I know many ladies might overlook it, ignoring his behavior as a dutiful wife and believe such things are they way of men. My mother is not one of them, especially after raising my brother Jon. Robb most certainly would never accept him."

Sandor and Bronn exchange looks, both men well aware of Sansa's bastard brother. "What about Jaime? Tywin will want a Stark to exchange for him and the little fiesty one is still missing, I understand." Bronn says delicately.

"Sorry Little Bird, but if Jaime is stupid enough to let Robb Stark catch him he deserves whatever the boy gives him," Sandor growls. Anger floods Sansa's face and she bristles for a moment but says nothing.

"Your man doesn't mean to get your blood up, he only means Jaime is an experienced fighter and should have known better than to get himself in such a predicament, that others shouldn't have to get him out of an avoidable mess. I agree wholeheartedly, as any fighting man would." Bronn explains, taking note of Sansa's frown and red cheeks.

"I see," she says, the frown disappearing at his words.

Sandor is now the one frowning, "Fuck man, I don't need your interference with my wife, you hear?" he barks, although inside he's grateful Bronn explained it to her so simply. Braden chuckles at the sight of two fierce men tiptoeing around such a small delicate girl.

Bronn grins as he continues, "I'll send a raven to Tyrion saying I found you but Sansa is not with you, that you saw her fall from her balcony and seeing as how you told everyone to fuck off you weren't about to go back and tell them. I'll tell 'em Shae's coin on me is money I won gambling in the whorehouse I found you in-sorry my lady, but it's the most believable place to find men such as us."

Looking at the couple, he lets them think it over, "Well, what say you?" Sansa looks at Sandor, watching for clues to his train of thought.

"What's in it for you? Shae throw in something special?"

Bronn grins at him, "No big man; I'm a married man myself now and I only favor one whore besides. I couldn't give a fuck as far as you but I seen enough in court to know Sansa deserves a chance to be happy and Shae paid me more than enough for my loyalty, I assure you."

"You? Married?!" Sandor barks out incredulously, making everyone laugh. "Aye, me. The Lannisters awarded me Lollys Stokeworth as wife. I know she's not the sharpest card in the deck but she's kind and good to me, sweet thing. She's been through a lot too, you know, with the riots and all."

Sandor remembers when they found her, wandering dazed and naked in Sow Belly Row, her body battered and broken from rape. Glancing up at Sandor he adds, "Got a babe in her but I'll say it's mine, she don't need any more humiliation, poor love. I've come to have tender feelings for her."

Struck with the weight of his words, Sansa begins to cry, understanding if Sandor had not rescued her, she could very well have ended up like her friend and fellow captive. Sandor goes to her, sitting down on the bed and pulling her close. Bronn is stunned by Sandor's tenderness toward his wife.

"No, forgive me Ser, I am alright. I cannot tell you how deeply sorry I am for your wife, Lollys was always very sweet to me. But I must say I am happy she has you for her husband, being so generous to her in this difficult situation." She says, drying her eyes.

"Thank you Sansa, that's very kind of you to say, you're a jewel, you know that?" Bronn clears his throat before changing the subject. "So, what say you? Do we have an agreement on what needs to be done or not?"

Though he still isn't certain it will be enough to throw the Lannisters off, Sandor slowly nods in assent, "Aye, we have an agreement." He pulls out a pouch of coin for Bronn.

"Put it away, big man. Consider it a wedding present from one newly married man to another. Your wife was a friend to mine and I respect the kindness Sansa has shown her. Lollys speaks of her often."

Raising his eyebrow Sandor laughs, the harsh sound filling the small cabin, "Two more unlikely husbands you'll never find." Though exhausted from the conversation, her eyes now are heavy but in spite it all Sansa beams at them and finally looks at ease.

Braden relaxes and sheathes his knife. "Your bride seems weary, Clegane. Here lass drink some honeyed ale, it will give you strength though you won't like the taste. Let's get this man fed and watered," he slaps Bronn on the back and leads him out of the cabin. "Quit corrupting my wife, you devil," he growls as he smiles at her.

"Sandor, please why don't you go with them? Have some food and ale my love, you have been stuck in here with me for three days. I don't mind, I'm going to sleep now anyway."

Still distressed over her illness, Sandor cannot bear to leave her. But she has asked him to, so he hesitatingly agrees, "Alright wife, though I never liked that cheeky bastard. I guess it's a good thing I didn't kill him before the battle, huh?"

Laughing she throws her arms around him, whispering, "Did you really almost kill him?"

Scooping her into his lap, he says, "Aye, I came real close. You know I never joke about killing or fucking woman," before kissing her behind her ear and down her neck.

"You! Oh you're impossible!" she laughs before turning her neck so he has better access.

"If you keep acting so wanton, I'll never leave," he growls before laying her down, tucking her in the furs snugly. Yawning Sansa cuddles down under the bedding while Sandor builds a small fire for her. "I'll return with your dinner as soon as I'm finished eating."

"Thank you my love, for everything," she whispers before dozing off. Sandor watches her sleep for a while, then tears himself away to join the other men.


	20. Making Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING-This chapter contains a scene of violence against women. I have placed an asterisk (*) next to the trigger paragraph for my readers who may find it disturbing, so you can skip it and still enjoy the fic :)

Tywin pounds on Tyrion's solar door just as he and Shae sit down to dinner. "Did you send that good-for-nothing man of yours after Clegane?" Tyrion eyes his father, "Dearest Father, you should know I realize you already have the answer to your question or you would not be here. Yes, Bronn-who may I remind you our lovely queen regent made Ser Bronn of the Blackwater-left three days ago. I do not expect a crow from him for another week."

"Idiot boy, do you honestly think I'm waiting on that greasy sellsword for news? Today I dispatched Gregor Clegane from Harrenhal to Maidenpool; he will meet your sellsword there. Then we shall see what there is to know about Sandor's whereabouts."

"You're sending Gregor?! For what, so he can torture Bronn until he tells you what he knows? I assure you money will work much better for you with Bronn; such heavy handed tactics do not sit well with him." Scoffing, Tyrion continues, "And just what makes you so certain there is anything to be found? Bronn will be lucky if the Riverlanders don't feed his manhood to their wolf pups, let alone make it to Maidenpool alive with this bloody war your grandson started!"

"Say what you will but the only man that can handle the Hound is the Mountain- everyone knows that, Tyrion. If the Stark girl is with Bronn and the Hound, Gregor will make sure she is delivered to her family unharmed."

"Oh yes, because your beloved pet is so well-known for his honorable treatment of fair maidens! Gregor need only take one look at lovely Sansa and he will rape her to death, we both know that-especially since you've had him tucked away pulling the wings off flies at Harrenhal for so long!"

Tywin slams his fist on the table, "This must be settled before Joffrey weds the Tyrell girl on the sennight-one way or another!" Tywin stares wide-eyed at his father. "This situation will be anything but settled, Father. Even in the unlikely even they do have Sansa and manage to deliver her unharmed, do you suppose Robb Stark is going to let the Hound, the Mountain and my champion who bested the Arryn's captain of the guard just waltz into the Vale with his sister? Now who is the idiot?!"

Visibly shaking, Shae hands Tyrion a plate of food, averting her eyes from Tywin. Tyrion watches her a moment before accepting then says, "This conversation bores me Father, shall I get back to my sup?" Sighing, Tywin snarls, "You notify me the first you hear of your sellsword," then leaves, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

 

Bronn enjoys the Riverlander's strong dark honeyed ale more than he thought possible and indulges in the strong brew as he would the Dornish red, draining a large quantity in a short period of time. Sitting around the campfire with Sandor, Braden and other assorted clansmen who are curious about him, he feels most at ease-singing, trading stories and talking plenty of tall tales to the entertainment of the other men-all except Sandor, that is.

Watching him with disdain, Sandor stays mostly quiet as he eats his fill of roasted venison, lamb stew and assorted root vegetable dishes, all made by the young women of the camp, hoping to turn the heads of Sandor and Bronn. Before long Bronn finds a busty blonde on his lap and her red-haired friend soon plops herself onto Sandor's lap as well.

It has been more than a sennight since Sandor has enjoyed any strong liquor and the dark ale is considerably stronger than the wine he normally drinks. His body quickly responds to the feeling of the girl's soft curves pressing into his thigh but Sandor hastily removes the young woman just the same, abruptly standing up and unceremoniously dropping her onto the ground.

"Get off me hussy," he growls at her. "You wanna earn coin, fight the other one for Bronn and get the hell away from me-you know damn well I'm here with my wife." The redhead gives him the once over and smiles, "Looks to me you might enjoy a little comfort while your little wifey gets well-she don't hafta know Hound, it can be our secret," she laughs as she reaches for his lacings, "I can see you like me well enough."

Watching Sandor closely, Braden and Bronn both stand up quickly, recognizing the fury distorting his face by her implication. "It's nothing that doesn't happen every morning, wench-don't flatter yourself." Turning back to her friend she winks as she continues attempting to undo his pants,"Don't be like that Sweet-I can make it real nice for you now." Not sensing the anger her words and actions ignite in the man, she laughs and pulls him toward her.

* Sandor responds with lightning speed, grabbing her arm and slapping her squarely across the face, "I told you, keep your fucking hands to yourself or I'll break you damn neck," he hisses, looking every bit the snarling dog of his helm. Bronn and Braden look at the woman but do not move, afraid any action may provoke Sandor further.

* More embarrassed than hurt, the woman jumps back on her feet, trying to cover up her injured pride in front of the men, "As if I'd take the likes o'you into my bed anyway for any price, you ugly mangy dog! We'll see what your pretty little highborn wifey says when she hears how riled you got feeling my sweet arse in your lap!" Lunging toward her, Sandor wraps his large hand around her slender throat, dragging her close to his face he rasps, "You'll stay away from her if you know what's good for you." Gasping for air, she struggles to wrench herself free from him, only succeeding in tightening his grip on her further. "You wouldn't be the first whore I killed and probably not the last, either. I see you talking to her you're as good as dead. Find another man to shove his cock in your mouth." With that he throws her away from him and sits back down, his eyes flashing with ill suppressed rage.

Braden looks her over, "Go on then, you heard him. Better do it before he changes his mind, wench." Shaking with fear, the girl fairly runs away from the men. The blonde woman sits back down on Bronn's lap, seemingly unaffected by the scene and still eager as ever to earn her coin. Clearing his throat, Braden offers, "More ale, anyone?" before staggering over to the serving table to fill his cups.

"Fuck, Hound, no one would believe you're so soft with your wife if they didn't see it firsthand. Can't you spare any of that for the rest of us?" Bronn laughs mockingly, unwrapping the blonde's dress and exposing her breasts. Sandor rises to his feet, " Only for Sansa, understand? And don't you fucking forget it, either. You don't like it you can go fuck yourself with a hot poker, runt." Laughing, Bronn turns his attention to the woman on his lap, "There's the real Hound and make no mistake!"

Shaking his head, Sandor heads over to the serving table where the women have prepared a tray full of the choicest portions for Sansa. "Many thanks milady," Sandor grunts, handing her two stags. Gasping at his generosity, the overwhelmed woman responds, "Oh thank you kindly milord, so generous you are to me! Anything else you and your bride need, you ask for Maive, you hear?"

"Will do Maive, you earned every coin being so good to my lady." Smiling, Sandor nods as Braden approaches, "Come to scold me for choking the whore?" Shaking his head, Braden replies, "No crime in disciplining a saucy wench. Turning in so early Hound? We got gambling planned for later and I happen to know you're the richest of the lot."

"No, go relieve Bronn of his ill-gotten gains; I want to get back to my wife. Never thought you'd hear me turn down a game of chance, did you? Only wed a bit over a sennight and already she's changed me," Sandor chuckles, draining his last cup of ale. "For that pretty little lass any man would, Hound. You're a lucky man, don't fuck it up with some worthless whore," he says low, slapping him on the back before heading back to Bronn.

Slowly walking back to the cabin, Sandor ponders the change Sansa's love has wrought on his behavior. Not so long ago gambling and drinking is the way he would have spent the evening and he would have gladly fucked the redhead and paid her extra to be quiet so he could imagine she was Sansa. He would only quit his fun when he either passed out or the sun came up, spending the next day or two recuperating with yet more of the same activity.

This evening listening to the men talk angered him instead, making him long to return to the peace and quiet of Sansa's company. If he hadn't been so pissed the redhead would have never aroused him so easily; he knows he better tell Sansa before someone else does, either out of spite or seeking coin for their silence.

Has he really changed so much in so little time? Was it possible he might be capable of eventually become a family man after all? In truth, this desire has always resided in him, buried deep inside his hardened heart. Always believing himself too ugly or brutal for any woman to love, he has ending up denying this even to himself for most of his life, until Sansa.

Poor Little Bird, he still doesn't have the heart to tell her Erik said they may not have a family due to her illness. Still weak, he isn't sure if she is strong enough to hear it yet. But this is another subject that will not wait; he has to tell her, sooner rather than later.

Bronn's message greatly disturbs him; Tyrion and Tywin are no fools. If that fucker Littlefinger pushes the right buttons they will most certainly come after him, regardless of what Bronn tells them. Bronn is tough to be sure, but Sandor knows Tywin only need turn Gregor loose on Bronn and he would sing like a bird for them.

Afraid to approach him, the youngest son of the blacksmith calls out, "Ser Hound, the work you ordered is ready," from the smiting stall, earning a smack from his father, "I said go to him fool boy!" The sound of their voices jars him from his troubled thoughts. "No harm, he doesn't need a smack now, damn it," Sandor calls.

Walking up to the boy he looks over his work, "Aye, good lad. Quick work and solid too-your sire worked you hard, I'd wager," he says as he hands him five stags. "I'm no ser, boy-just call me Clegane or Hound. Bring it to the cabin, will you?" Grinning, the boy answers, "Yes right away, thank you Clegane!"

"One more job for you boy; after you deliver it bring six buckets of water, you hear? There's another two coins in it for you and don't you share it now, you hear?" Glancing at his father he answers, "Yes milord, right away, thank you."

When Sandor opens the door Sansa is just finishing lighting the candles, waiting for his return. "Little Bird I have a surprise for you, the smith's boy will be coming soon." Hurrying over to the bed, she wraps a blanket around her shoulders, "A surprise? I cannot wait to see it!"

"Here sit down and eat, it'll be here shortly." Tapping lightly on the door the boy calls, "I'm here Clegane and missus!" Sandor opens the door; lugging a large metal washtub, the boy sets it next to the fireplace. "If you put rocks from the hearth in there, the water will be ready in a half-hour at most."

Puzzled, Sansa repeats, "Hot rocks?" Smiling, Sandor explains, "We'll fill the tub with water, then add rocks from the fire to heat it up."

"Oh, a hot bath, how wonderful! Thank you Sandor, I love it," she smiles up at him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Bending down, Sandor kisses her before sitting her back in front of her dinner, "Now eat up. The ladies saved the best for you." Sansa's smile melts away from her face, a familiar fear creeping into her eyes, "What is it? Are you-are you drunk?"

Unable to hold her gaze he places several river rocks in the fireplace; the hollow fear in her eyes reminds him of their days in King's Landing and turns his stomach knowing he is the one causing it now. "Aye, a wee bit, the ale is a bit stronger than my usual poison. A bit of fresh air will do me good; I'll stand outside while you eat and the lad fills your bath." Losing his nerve, Sandor steps out before she answers, needing a moment to gather his thoughts.

Sansa finishes everything on her tray, her appetite is getting stronger as her health improves. The boy comes in and quickly fills the tub, leaving the couple alone. "Sandor please come inside-are you feeling any better?"

"Aye, I'm fine now. Let's heat up the water for you now." Not meeting her eyes, he takes out three river rocks and drops them into the tub, sending steam hissing into the air. Watching him carefully she sits on the bed, motioning him to sit beside her, "Please, what is it? You're scaring me," she says softly.

Sighing he sits down, "You and I are an honest pair, aren't we?" Sansa nods, searching his face closely. "I have a few things to tell you that may hurt you or at the very least will make you unhappy." Taking a deep breath she pauses then says, "Alright, tell me, I can bear it." Clearing his throat, "Tonight Bronn and I had a couple of whores overeager for our coin after us and one ended up in my lap. She got a bit of a reaction out of me too," he says low. "What do you mean? Did you...go with her?" Sansa whispers, steeling herself for the worst. "No, no, she felt me in her lap. I pushed her off me but she didn't take no for an answer."

"And then what happened?" He pauses,"She infuriated me so I slapped the whore and choked her a bit," he answers sheepishly. Sansa knows what Sandor is capable of when pressed; she never saw the maid that found her moon blood again after he came into her room. After that day, Shae heard whispers that she fell down the stairs to her death in a tragic accident but her and Sansa knew better however, and never spoke of it. "Oh gods-did you hurt her badly?"

"No, but she threatened to tell you I cheated, and I warned her I'd kill her for coming anywhere near you. Not sure she'll mind me but if she dares talk to you she'll learn quick enough I don't make empty threats, I'll tell you that. Even though nothing happened you should hear it from me first."

"What did Bronn and the others do? Did they help her?"

"No-Sansa, men like them think nothing about slapping a surly wench. No one even gave me a glance; though Braden was afraid I would kill her I doubt he would have tried to stop me from going through with it. I'm not proud of slapping her but I will kill anyone who tries to come between us without hesitation, believe that."

Sansa reaches out to him, "I'm not blind to what you are capable of, Sandor and you would not have done what you did if she had not threatened us. I cannot help but hope one day you will no longer feel the need to do such things."

"I'll do it for as long as it fucking takes woman and I'm not ashamed of it, either. I swore if anyone tries to hurt you, I'll kill them."

"My love, it is only that it frightens me to think one day you will treat me the same in a moment of anger...like when I mentioned the possibility of my family annulling our marriage."

Searching her face, he speaks deliberately, allowing his words to sink in, "I would never, ever hurt you Little Bird, I swear it on my sister's grave, you must believe me." He pulls her close and tilts her face up to him so he can look into her eyes. "I vowed to myself that will never happen again; I will never treat you rough I promise. Can you trust me with that, Sansa?"

Turning away from him, she says, "I want to...I do-but it's always something, isn't it? Why can't people just let us be?" He hugs her close, "Are you angry that she...sparked me?" Sansa looks down, "Yes, no-not angry exactly, jealous I guess," she mutters, breaking free from his hold. "How can such things happen?"

"Sansa, men are just made that way, I don't know. Fuck, the questions you ask," he answers, pulling her back to him. "It's just a reaction, like sneezing. Shit, don't women have anything like that?"

"I don't know; I told you my mother left before I even knew to ask such things! Being with so many whores you must think me a stupid child," she mutters angrily, not for the first time. "Sansa..." she raises her hand to silence him. "Please, let's not speak of it anymore." Sandor lowers his eyes, gritting his teeth he refrains from speaking his thoughts; though he is angry she interrupted him he is determined to stay quiet.

"I will not live like my mother, forced to live with my husband's infidelity haunting our family-I promise you that Sandor Clegane! It's not fair to the wife and I know it certainly wasn't fair to my brother Jon. I wasn't always kind to him, feeling it would be disloyal to my mother to embrace him and I was so very wrong. I saw how you and Bronn looked at each other when I mentioned him, it's wrong to force such things on a child. If you must be unfaithful, I would sooner part with you than live with such unhappiness," she whispers her last words, and Sandor now understands the true source of her jealousy-fear she will end up raising a bastard of his in her own home, as her mother did with Ned.

"I don't think you stupid or a child, or would have never married you. And if I wanted to be with someone else I would not have wed you. I am nothing if not loyal, Sansa-you needn't worry about that," he answers quietly, the anger draining from him at her words. It has been a very long time since she has spoken her feelings openly. Hearing herself give voice to her thoughts moves Sansa to speak further, though in the back of her mind she fears reprisal, a consequence of her time spent with the Lannisters.

Mustering her courage, she continues,"Sandor, I understood what you meant about Robb earlier but please refrain from those kinds of comments in front of others. I would rather some things stay between us."

"Aye Little Bird, no more of that, I promise."Sandor nods, secretly proud she is finally expressing herself freely even if it is at his expense. He knows the Lannisters robbed her of all dignity and privacy, forcing her to chirp her lies on demand to stay alive even as they waged war against her family; he would never have her feel the need to act the same with him.

"Thank you, I-I value our privacy, I went without any for so long...can you understand?" She squeezes his hand as she meets his eyes. Now that she has expressed herself she finds her courage waning. "I did not mean any disrespect when I insisted you bring Bronn here-it was wrong of me to blurt it out that way in front of others." Sandor turns her to face him, "Little Bird, you never need apologize for saying what you think. I'll be damned if I'll be the one making you chirp your courtesies. I couldn't give a fuck what anyone else thinks about it-you give me your honest opinion, always." Kissing him lightly she asks, "Is the bath ready, do you think?"

"Aye, I'll take out the stones and we'll heat them up again in case the water cools off." Sandor moves to the tub and removes the stones, then turns to watch her, transfixed by the sight of her undressing in front of him. Sansa removes her gown and robe; she is not wearing smallclothes, Sandor immediately notices. Slowly unbraiding her waist length hair she smiles, never taking her eyes off of him as she steps closer and runs her hands through the warm bath, feeling Sandor's heated gaze upon her.

Pretending not to notice she takes his hand, "Come join me," she shyly smiles, stepping into the water and dunking her head several times. Passion courses through him as he stares at his beautiful wife but Sandor is unsure she is well enough for what he wants. "Little Bird if I get in there you'll get more than just a bath-a man can only take so much temptation," he barks his harsh laugh at her. "You won't hurt me," she smiles, her eyes twinkling playfully. Needing no further encouragement, Sandor strips down and follows her into the water.

After gently making love to her, Sandor gently strokes Sansa's stomach as they lay among the furs, watching the crackling fireplace. "I know we have to leave soon...I knew as soon as Bronn walked through the door," Sansa whispers. "We cannot risk staying here if Bronn knows our whereabouts, even if he swears he won't say anything."

Sandor snuggles her closer, "You're a smart Little Bird, you know that?" he grunts, rolling her onto her side facing him. "We can head toward the Vale; there are plenty of Mountain clans there. It's dangerous but I've dealt with them before; we can get lost among them fairly easily. Neither Bronn or any of the fucking Lannisters will dare head into that country. Between the tribesmen and your brother's armies, it's far too risky for them to venture into that terrain."

"When do we leave?" she asks, running her fingers through the thick hair on his chest. Sandor pauses, "I'm sure Bronn won't head back home as fast as he brought his message here with no money in it for him. If he doesn't decide to stay with that whore, he'll leave day after tomorrow-with the hangover he'll be nursing he'll be lucky if he doesn't puke on his horse before then. He'll send his crow in whatever's left of Maidenpool; I'll wager he won't make it back to King's Landing for maybe three days after-and that's if he travels fast. We can probably stay two maybe three days. I want you well first, Lady Clegane."

Hearing her called by her wedded name brings a huge smile to her face, "Alright, then. I'll be ready when you are; I am feeling much stronger this evening." Pulling her close, he says softly, "Erik has a bit of bad news I need to tell you." Leaning up on one elbow, she looks him in the face,"Oh, yes?" Gulping, he looks at her for a moment, then continues, "Little Bird, it doesn't make any difference to me at all, understand? The fact is...well, you may not be able to get with child after that fever, I'm sorry," he whispers, wrapping her close as he braces for her reaction.

Tears from her eyes wet his chest for several minutes before she answers. "I know, I was afraid of that," she whispers, "The same thing happened to one of our kitchen ladies...she had a terribly high fever for many days, and was never able to have children. Old Nan told me about it not long before I left Winterfell."

"I would never mistreat you or leave you over such a thing, Sansa."

"I know, I know," she sniffs sadly. "Still, I'll keep to the moon tea for now and if the gods see fit to give us a child in the future they will..my father will make certain of it in the afterlife, I just know it," she chokes out as Sandor's own tears silently fall for his brave wife and the promise of children they have been so cruelly denied.


	21. The Mountain that Rides Looks for the Hound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: The Gregor section includes non-graphic references to rape and thoughts of rape-this is a Gregor Clegane POV, after all. If you find it upsetting please skip altogether or only avoid the paragraphs with an asterisk (*) next to it so you can still enjoy the fic :)

Sansa awakens the next morning to thunder rolling across the Riverlands. Spending the night nestled against Sandor's warm stomach she slept comfortably despite the chill in the tiny log cabin. Moving carefully away from him, she tiptoes over to the window and gazes at the sleepy camp. Outside Bronn and a blonde woman she has never seen step out of a makeshift tent. Staggering, Bronn is laughing and flirting, trying to pull on his pants. "Still clearly not recovered from the night before, just as Sandor predicted," she smiles, knowing that the longer he stays means the longer she and Sandor can delay their inevitable departure.

A red-headed young woman with deep purple bruising on her cheek and neck leads a young bashful clansman into a dirty tent, smiling and pulling on his pants all the while. "Hmm she must be the one Sandor met," she muses, her physical traits identifying her as the whore who sparked her new husband, sending Sansa's jealousy boiling at the very sight of her. After throwing more logs on the fire, Sansa sits back on the mattress, regarding Sandor while he sleeps. "In sleep he looks so peaceful, almost gentle," she marvels at the change relaxation brings in her husband. Normally he is up at first light but Sansa figures he needs to sleep off the ale a bit as well, though he would never admit such a thing.

Even in the chilly morning Sandor's body radiates warmth, sleeping atop the covers in only his smallclothes. Her eyes wander over his muscular physique, taking in the scars that criss cross over his chest and stomach. His beard needs trimming, she decides she will do it later. His thick black hair has grown down to his shoulders since they left King's Landing, and lying on his side it covers the burnt side of his face. Occasionally his mouth twitches in his sleep, giving him a fearsome appearance even in rest. Gazing at him, Sansa cannot help thinking he is beautiful just the way he is, her kind yet fierce husband. As tender as he is lethal, his personality is as abundant in drastic contrasts as his scarred face. Rolling onto his back, he pats her leg in his sleep and Sansa notices he is aroused even in rest.

Curling beside him, Sansa snuggles her cheek against his stomach, her chilled skin jolting him from sleep. "Fuck woman, you're cold," he growls, pulling the furs over them both before dozing off once more. They have made love a dozen or more times since their wedding yet Sansa has never really looked closely at his body as she still feels a maidenly shyness with him. Curious, she traces her fingers along the outline of his manhood over his smallclothes, marveling at how large and hard she finds him. Slowly she moves down his stomach, running her fingers through the coarse black curls trailing below his waistband before dips her hand inside. Groaning, he arches his manhood toward her hand, "What do you think your doing Little Bird?" he rasps. "I am just admiring you, husband," she grins up at him. His member is so hard and yet his skin is so soft she cannot resist touching him, all the while thinking her septa would faint if she knew what she was doing.

Delicately she begins running her hand up his shaft in a slow fluid pace, eliciting a deep moan from him. Gripping her hand, he guides her movements, speeding up her pace while tightening her hand around him. Her soft hand slides smoothly along his length, his arousal fluid covering her grip as she quickens her movements, squeezing her thighs together as she finds herself wet with desire for him. Suddenly he roughly stills her movements, growling and gripping the base of his manhood tightly. Kissing her way up his thigh, she takes him into her mouth, sucking long and hard on him while swirling her tongue around his tip. "Gods, Little Bird," he groans, so dazed with pleasure he can hardly believe what is happening. Feeling his thigh muscles tensing, Sansa slows her ministrations.

"Only for me, Sandor. Your body, your desire-only for me," she whispers against his erection, licking a wet strip down to the bast of his manhood with her tongue. Gasping, he nods, "Gods, oh yes, Sansa..." Raising up she rubs her breasts up against his chest, kissing him on the mouth before whispering against his lips, "Say it, my love-only for me." Barely able to form words in his pleasure, he nods again struggling for control, "Yes, oh yes Sansa."

She throws her leg over him, lowering her wet center against his manhood, allowing him to tease her entrance. Barely taking the tip of him inside of her, she moves just enough so he can feel her wet inner walls squeezing around his head. "Yes, what Sandor?" Panting, he chokes out, "Yes...only for you," Hearing his words she lowers herself onto him, allowing him to fill her completely, tightening her inner muscles as she raises off of him, intensifying the tightening sensation around him. "Yes...oh gods Sansa that feels good." Sandor reaches up to grab her but she gently rebuffs him, pressing him back against the bed with her hand.

Reaching behind her she grips this thighs and slowly begins riding his length in long thrusts, changing her position so her nub rubs enticingly at the base of him with each movement. Sansa finds having his pleasure in her control more arousing than she could ever have imagined and her peak slams into her with a sudden powerful force, shouting her release so loudly she fears she has awakened the entire camp.

Her initial embarrassment fades into fierce pride as she looks down at Sandor sweating and writhing in the throws of pleasure, dazed by the sight her wanton pose while she rides his length. "Let them all hear," the wolf in her growls, "Let them all know he is mine, as I am his," speeding up the rocking pace of her hips once more; she guides his hands to her breasts and he rubs her nipples in time with her thrusts. Ten strokes later Sandor's orgasm overtakes him, the cabin echoes the sound of his shouts of ecstasy and Sansa finds her pleasure once again soon after. "Only for me, my love," she kisses him tenderly, snuggling into the crook of his neck and inhaling his warm masculine scent. Stroking her belly, Sandor tenderly kisses her,"Yes only for you and you alone, Little Bird."

Pulling her close to him, he rubs his hands over her shoulders and down her back, whispering against her forehead, "Damn it if you aren't feeling better!" She laughs, and they both smile at the tittering giggles they hear outside their door as the camp rouses for the day. "We might've given the camp a bit of a show," Sandor grins wolfishly at her and if Sansa didn't know better she would say he was blushing. Thunder echoes loudly overhead as rain patters against the roof. "How can I worry over that when I have such a man as you in my bed?" she coos, deeply kissing him once more. "Aye, is that so now?" he smiles, rolling her over and holding her close to his chest. Dark fear suddenly clouds her mood.

"What will happen if the Lannisters don't believe Bronn? What if Tywin sends more soldiers Sandor?" she asks softly, the tight uneasiness in her heart causing her burrow closer into his chest. Snuggling close, Sandor replies, "Then we'll handle it now, won't we lass? In my experience there's no point in worrying about the "if's" in life. It's usually what you least expect that you causes the most suffering." He has said as much before and she knows he is right; all of the things that caused Sansa the most heartache has also been the most unexpected.

"I cannot lose you," she whispers, afraid to breath life in her words. "Not today you won't-come here woman and put those morbid thoughts of yours away for a bit," he growls, passionately kissing her back into a more pleasant frame of mind. Comforted by his words and touch Sansa settles back into his arms. Sated, couple lazily doze to the sound of driving rain outside, reminding Sansa of their honeymoon along the creek.

* * *

 

**Gregor**

It may have been some 200 years since Aegon and his wives Rhaenys and Visenya unleashed dragonfire and laid waste to the mighty castle yet whenever the cold rains of winter descend on the burned out stone ruins of Harrenhal Castle, the air is once again filled with the smell of soot and ash recalling the horrific events that led to its present state of decay.

Tossing Tywin's message in the large fireplace, Gregor Clegane growls low before turning and kicking the giant wolfhound sleeping in the corner. Whimpering, the frightened animal scurries away leaving the squire alone with the Mountain and Polliver, wishing he could do the same. "So my little brother up and stole the little redheaded Stark cunt now, did he?" Polliver raises up out of the chaise, "He did what?" "You heard me, old Tywin's not convinced she died in that fucking moat, thinks little brother Sandor has her hidden away someplace. He wants us to check on the Imp's sellsword."

Polliver answers, "I don't believe I've ever seen the girl-is she dead Ned's girl?" "One of 'em, aye. They never found the younger one, she was an ugly little monkey-but that sister of hers, hmm she's good enough to eat." Gregor licks his lips, his mouth filling with saliva at the memory of Sansa walking into the tourney on her father's arm.

 ***** He remembers the little thing cheering his brother on that day, jumping up as he was declared winner of the tourney. He had planned on catching her later and teaching her a lesson, even if she was the prince's cunt. His fucking brother put an end to his fun quick, for he planned on chopping the Flower's Knight in two for the trick he pulled. If not for Robert he would have killed them both and would not have to go on some half cocked mission to find them now.

 ***** Gregor has spent the entire war with Tywin satisfying his carnal urges with frightened whores, peasant wenches he catches unawares or even some of the lower ranked soldiers too weak to resist him. It matters not where he finds his pleasure, for it is well known he kills after he fucks-like a black widow spider, Tywin always says with a wicked grin watching him lustfully satisfy his appetite. "Saddle the horses. We ride at dusk." Polliver nods, then calls the squire to begin preparations. Lord Tywin's orders were clear; he is to meet up with the Imp's sellsword and return the Stark girl to her brother in the Vale. Fat fucking chance of that, Gregor has his own ideas of how he will handle Sandor and knows Tywin would never punish his favorite knight should things take a wrong turn. Gregor can hardly believe Tywin dares suggests he take more than one man after his brother; he can handle Sandor easily enough alone and he and Polliver together are more than enough. Gregor had given up his hope of killing Sandor long ago and his sword arm twitches in anticipation of finally meeting a worthy opponent in battle.

 ***** Given the opportunity to find such a sweet piece of cake as Sansa with his brother would double his pleasure-and if Sandor behaves Gregor might even let the runt watch him ravage the redheaded wolf bitch before he kills him. As darkness descends on the beleaguered castle, the Tickler calls the prisoners to attention. "Ser Gregor and Polliver will be leaving for a week but don't get any ideas or think you'll be getting any reprieve from me now," he cackles menacingly, sending uneasy glances throughout the assembly.

Astride his great warhorse, Gregor notices a mousy little boy darting a look at one of his new recruits, a Braavosi bastard with white streaks in his red hair. The man intrigues Gregor; in spite of the daily horrors around him he has never seen him display any signs of fear. He is only of average size and yet one and all seem to fear him, even the Tickler. Pausing a moment, he takes a closer look at the boy, "Maybe his son?" he wonders, then draws a new conclusion: the boy is in fact a girl.

 ***** Gregor roars out a laugh at his discovery-here he had a girl to fuck right under his nose this entire time and he'd been settling for runty soldiers and toothless whores. Well I'll have something to look forward to when I return, he thinks while he lasciviously stares at her. Something in her manner Gregor finds disconcerting; she glares at him without fear; only unadulterated hatred seethes from her as her steel gray eyes meets his own. The only other person to ever look at Gregor in such a way is Sandor, "Who the fuck do you think you are?" he grumbles to himself.

Far in the distance a wolf's lonesome howl fills the cold night air. "Humph, keep looking at me like that cunt and I'll feed you to that wolf out there, you'd make a tasty bite for him." he grunts. Unflinching the girl glares back and answers emphatically, "That's not a wolf out there-it's a direwolf."

"What the fuck difference does that make?" he shouts before turning his horse toward the gate with Polliver following closely behind. "More than you'll ever know," the girl mutters, turning back to the pallet.

Soon the land around Harrenhal echoes with the sound of more howls and calls, growing louder as their numbers increase on the moors. The blacksmith turns to the girl, "Sounds kind of scary, don't you think?"

"No, not at all Gendry. It sounds like home to me, like family," she sighs, smiling briefly before returning to her post.


	22. Of Wolves and Dogs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off I would like to apologize to Czarrina and anyone who may have been disturbed by the scenes of violence against women-I thoughtlessly forgot to include trigger warnings and have amended the offending fic chapters. 
> 
> Everyone please be assured I am commited to writing my fics and there is no need to worry that I may give up on it. I appreciate everyone's heartfelt support and encouragement-I have the best readers! Thank you so much, it really means a lot :D  
> For Moa in the Moon, whose writing inspired me and gave me the courage to start this fic.

Pale blue moonlight glints off the massive direwolve's white and silver fur as she slowly stalks closer to the castle walls. Raising her nose toward the sky, the wind carries the smell of the structure and she deepy inhales the scent. The air is thick with the odor of man-sweat, fear, blood and death, everywhere death-she has never smelled so much death in one place. Among this amalgam of odors Nymeria catches another distinct scent; it is feminine and young and familiar.

The scent of man does not intimidate the direwolf however; it is in some ways the smell of family. Men rescued her and her litter mates and later gave her a little girl called Arya. Arya's family is far different than any other humans she has encountered for they do not have a human scent; each member of her little girl's family smells of direwolves-the comforting smell of her litter mates, her family. All but one of them that is, and Nymeria never trusted the boy her human wolf pack would not give to one of her litter mates.

Arya with her dark fur on her head became her human sister and she loved her very much. Every night she spent sleeping on her beloved little girl's bed, and her early life was spent as her constant companion and protector. Every night she would hold her close and brush her fur. Nymeria reveled in her attention and loving care.

Her little girl tried in vain to teach her tricks and a few words, though the direwolf only pretended not to learn in hopes of keeping her attention as long as possible. Sometimes curled up in a warm pile of leaves at night, she dreams she is still with her little girl, safe and secure curled up at the foot of her soft bed in the great northern castle.

Arya had even rescued her once and Nymeria has not forgotten her human sister's bravery. At first she did not understand why her little girl chased her away until later she caught the scent of her litter mate Lady's death along the road her family followed south. She did not understand why they went with the strange humans that filled their home with the smell of fear; it is from them Nymeria first learned the scent of bloodshed on humans.

Being the lone wolf without a pack had been frightening at first but soon enough she found others to run with and now she is the alpha female of a large family. Running through the woods late one night with her pack, she caught her human sister's scent and picked up her trail. Sensing her little girl's fear, it is Arya's familiar odor alone that has drawn her to this cold place reeking of death.

More than anything she wants her little girl to be part of her pack again, that would make her family complete. Hearing a terrible screeching noise, she quickly drops to her belly, crawling on her haunches for a closer look.

Two large men are leaving, each of them emitting the heavy scent of blood and fear and at once the direwolf scents her young mistress on them as well. Calling to her pack she lopes along the ridge among the trail, following the scent of the two bloody men under the blackness of night.

* * *

The great chorus of wolf song accompanies Gregor and Polliver and though the men talk very little, both are unnerved by the unusual occurance nonetheless. While they slowly work their way along the dilapidated trail toward Maidenhead, the moon passes behind the clouds and the men decide to stop for the night. After setting up camp Gregor quickly snares a family of rabbits for their supper.

As Gregor and Polliver gather large bundles of wood, yellow eyes gleam out of the darkness waiting and watch every move. The large fire fails to ward off the determined predators so the two men take turns keeping watch over the camp. Each man downs a wineskin of Dornish red in an attempt to settled nerved frayed by the incessant howling and it is not long before they both drift off into fitful sleep.

* * *

Nymeria barks out a series of low growls, signaling her pack to stay back from camp of the men. Lying low in the underbrush, she settles down in a pile of wet leaves, patiently awaiting her opportunity to draw closer.

When the moon begins its descent on the horizon, the men's shallow breathing is the only sound in the forest. It is the moment Nymeria has been waiting for all night. Slowly she crawls on her belly closer to the camp, hesitantly approaching the larger man who smells of her little girl's fear, of cruelty and death. Breathing in his scent, she identifies him as the man scaring her beloved little girl.

Are these men hunting Arya as prey? Do these men feed on other humans? She had never seen humans do such a thing but the scent of their predatory nature is unmistakable. She will not attack just yet, she will follow the men hoping they will lead her to her human sister. Wherever they are going, Nymeria is determined she and her pack will follow and protect her from these men.

* * *

Awakened by the rain pouring off the eaves of the cabin, Sansa finds herself wrapped tightly in Sandor's embrace. His cheek is resting below her breasts and he is rhythmically stroking his hand across her navel, cradling her belly. Smiling she starts to reach for him, then notices a warm wetness dripping onto her stomach.

Tenderly he spreads the wetness across her skin with his hands; she realizes he is crying. Lying motionless, she silently watches Sandor as he carefully traces her stomach with his fingers. After several minutes she reaches down and runs her fingers through his hair. Jerking his head up to her, he quickly averts his eyes and suddenly gets out of the bed.

"Fuck me," he mutters, absently trying to busy himself by adding wood to the fire. Silently she watches him, unsure of what to say or if she indeed should say anything at all. Opening the door he rests his arms on the thick frame, staring out at the rain falling onto the camp.

Wrapping her blue robe she walks over to him and wraps her arms around his waist, smiling up at him. "What is it love-are you winesick?" Patting her arm he answers, "Yes, that damn ale had more kick than I expected." She holds him, stroking his bare skin with her fingers soothingly.

After a moment, he offers up a bit more. "About what Erik said is all...I wouldn't have believed it but damn it to hell the idea of children-our children kind of grew on me." Snuggling close to him she whispers, "I know, me too. You must believe me, Sandor...in my heart I just know we will have our family in spite of my illness. I cannot explain how I know but I am as certain of it as I am of my love for you."

Sandor pulls away and solemly regards her for a moment. How could she know any such thing? His mother used to say women had a special kind of sense that men did not possess. Still...in his mind it's more likely the Little Bird can't except the harsh reality. Keeping his skepticism to himself, Sandor only bends down and kisses her hair. Sansa knows he has doubts. "I understand it is hard to believe but you must trust me, alright?"

"Aye, I trust you Little Bird." Across the path Sandor spots the red-headed girl from the night before; she is soaked through, running into the tent of the young scout he's been paying to care for Stranger and Maiden; even at this distance he can see the bruises on her neck and cheekbones.

The site of her recalls his behavior previous night; groaning he curses under his breath. Sansa only holds him, knowing he will sooner or later tell her what is on his mind. "Told you what happened, did I now?" he asks weakly. Laughing she squeezes him closer, "Yes, you don't remember? That ale must be strong indeed."

"Fuck me if it wasn't, too-I may have dealt a bit too harshly with the wench at that. I didn't mean to bruise her, just scare her a bit. I was so pissed I didn't realize my own strength." Sansa only nods, waiting for his next words.

Clearing his throat, he growls, "There's no fucking way I'm apologizing, just put that idea out of your head right now. I'm not sorry. I was protecting you-and us."

"Hmm, I know my love." Shaking his head he continues, "Think I should give her some coin? For some herbs for those bruises?"

"Yes, that is a thoughtful idea. I can give them to her, if you like."

"That's a good lass but no, I'll do it myself later," he grumbles, turning to put water on the stove. When the water comes to a boil, he fills a tin cup and adds the moon tea leaves. Without a word he sets it down on the table, then quickly dresses and walks outside, unable to watch her drink it.

Watching him this way breaks her heart but she knows he must grieve in his own way, too. She follows him to the door. "I'll find us some breakfast," he says, kissing her before walking toward the meal tent. "I'll dress and join you," she calls after him with a smile, knowing his is eager to make amends to the injured girl before she arrives. Turning back inside, she drinks the moontea while she watches him.

At Sandor's approach the girl cautiously avoids him before leading the blushing young man over to the meal tent. Out of the corner of his eye he watches her, waiting for the right time to speak. He notices her bruises look even worse up close. Full of bravado she walks up behind him and takes a boiled quail egg, pretending not to notice him.

"Here, girl," he mutters, offering two coins. "Get some herbs for your bruises."

"Why, you worried your handiwork will affect my business?" she laughs scornfully, holding out her hand. The young scout with her looks on nervously, unsure what to do next. "Just take it. I'm not sorry but I didn't need to be so rough. You stay away from my wife, you hear? Or I'll do worse believe that, wench." he growls and turns away from her.

From the corner of the tent Sandor hears Bronn's voice. "Better take it and go girl-that's as close as the Hound gets to an apology, make no mistake. Don't stick around for him to change his mind now," he laughs. "Welcome friend, join me for breakfast?" Grunting, Sandor sits beside him on the bench. "Where's your bride? The lady still feeling poorly?"

"No she's better. She'll be along in a minute." Bronn studies him a moment. "Aye the changes that lass has made in you-they'd never believe it in King's Landing," he teases. "Fuck off with that, will you?" grumbles Sandor, though the scarred side of his face twitches into what Bronn recognizes is a suppressed grin. Pausing a moment he confesses, "Aye she has at that, sweet thing. I'm not sorry, either."

"Nor should you man! It does my heart good to have my wife, poor love. She might not have wished to be joined to me but she tries just the same, the Seven bless her. Did the ale fuck you up as bad as it did me?"

Sandor nods while drinking his coffee. "Braden don't look any worse for wear, though. When are you leaving?" Sighing Bronn fidgets with the utensils. "Might leave tomorrow-what say you to that?"

"No need to suit me, I'll make do." Shaking his head, Bronn chuckles. "You're the toughest son of a bitch I ever come across Clegane-hope I never run into your brother."

"Aye, I hope not either. Say goodbye to Sansa before you leave tomorrow, you hear?" Sandor offers his hand.

"Oh, I will. Here comes your pretty lady now." Bronn stands as Sansa draws near their table and bench. She is wearing another of Shae's gowns, a deep purple simple wool wrap dress that sets off her fiery hair. "Pretty as the morning lass-glad to see the roses back in your cheeks." Sandor glowers at him but moves so she may sit between them. "Are you well this morning Ser?"

"Not as fit as you. I'll stay one more day here, just the same," he replies, knowing she is worrying on when he will return to King's Landing. Four scouts ride up, barely slowing and kicking up mud before reaching the tent. Braden makes his way over. "What news?"

"Hunting party's back. You're gonna want to hear this," the scout says, glancing over toward Bronn and Sandor, Rising to their feet simultaneously, both men take long strides towards the scouts. Confused, Sansa gets up and follows the men. Sensing trouble, Tierney dismisses everyone present and joins them. "Out with it men-what say you?"

"The hunters crossed the path of a huge pack of wolves, thinking they were on the trail of a stag or elk somewhere up around the God's Eye between Harrenhal and Maidenpool. Instead it turns out the men came across Gregor Clegane and another man camped for the night." Sansa begins shaking uncontrollably; Sandor stands behind her, wrapping her in his arms he pulls her back against his chest. She can feel the tension rippling through the muscles in his arms. "Easy lass," Braden says with a small smile at Sansa.

The second scout continues. "They didn't make him aware of their presence, just watched him a bit, trying to learn what he's up to-the Mountain on the move is never good for anyone. The men nearest the camp overheard him and a bald man with a black beard say they're looking for the Hound."

"Polliver," Sandor grunts. He should have guessed that sadistic fuck would take up with his brother. "You say he's headed toward Maidenpool-mayhaps Tywin sent him to meet me after he spatted with Tyrion." Bronn says, rubbing his face. "I had a feeling this wouldn't be easy." Braden motions for the scouts to leave, then turns to listen to the rest of the conversation. "Aye, Tywin's no fool." Sandor agrees. "I served along with the old man on many occasions. Cersei gets her nature from him honest, to be sure."

Wide with fear, Sansa's eyes dart between Sandor and Bronn. "Why? Why would he sent Gregor?" she asks desperately. "Because lass, the old lion didn't live to be his ripe age by allowing any moss to grow on him. He knew better than to trust me, tough old sod." Sandor frowns, pulling Sansa still closer. "Tywin sent his favorite pet to check up on you. He won't reach Maidenpool for several days yet even traveling hard, which he rarely does. He won't expect you there before the end of the week at the earliest."

"Tywin and Gregor both can go fuck each other. I'm not going to Maidenpool to meet that bastard." Bronn says indignantly. "I don't answer to Tywin or Gregor. I'll head back toward King's Landing then and the Mountain can wait in Maidenpool as long as he wants. I'll send a raven to Tyrion from Stony Sept, tell them I found you in the woods not far from there and decided I'd send word from there."

"Aye, good man," Sandor pats Bronn. "Little Bird, we leave at first light. After we break our fast, you go gather our things. I'll look over the horses and gather our supplies." Fear renders her immobile; she remembers Gregor at the Hand's Tourney. Sandor looked like a boy squaring off with Gregor after Loras Tyrell unseating him sent him into a murderous rage.

His eyes had been the most frightening of all...she will never forget his gaze piercing her own, full of unbridled rage as she cheered for the Hound; it sent a stab of cold fear throughout her body. She has never been near anyone that elicited that kind of fear in her and she involuntarily shivers at the memory.

Sandor seemingly reads her thoughts; facing her he gently tilts her chin up to him."Sansa, look at me now. He won't find us, and even if he does I'm the only man that can match him-you've seen me do once before. He can't do any worse than he's already done to me. You're safe Little Bird."

Sansa wraps her arms around his and only nods, unable to keep from wondering if the outcome would have been different that day had King Robert not stepped in a put a stop to it.

Working throughout the day makes the time pass quickly for Sansa. Still recuperating she is much slower at packing their things and she is grateful Braden has sent three women over to help her.

By early evening Sandor and Bronn have finished with the necessary preparations. "I'm off tonight, Clegane," Bronn says as they walk closer to the cabin. "The quicker I reach Stony Sept, the sooner Tywin will call off the Mountain. Riding hard I should be there by tomorrow night."

"Many thanks Bronn," Sandor says, handing him two wineskins filled with honeyed ale and a pouch of coin. Bronn sniffs the contents and smiles. "I knew there was a reason I saved your miserable life," he chuckles, taking a long draw off the first one before setting it in his belt. Sansa emerges from the cabin, "Leaving so soon?"

"Aye lass. I have to give you and your man a head start now, don't I?" he grins at her. "Stay well the both of you and with any luck we'll never see each other again in this life." Sighing, Sansa reaches out and pulls Bronn close and surprises the man with a kiss on his stubbled cheek. "Now what was that for?"

"For being a loyal friend to us...I have learned they are very hard to come by. I am sorry we will most likely never meet again. Please know you, Lollys and Shae will always be welcome in our home and at our table I swear it. I'll pray for you and your wife." Sansa says solemnly, holding his hands. "That's right kind of you Lady Clegane-when I tire of King's Landing I may just take you up on it at that."

Sandor looks at her and nods approvingly, then holds out two small wood carvings to Bronn. "I've been working on these, Give them to Shae, will you-so she remembers us." Bronn fingers over the intricately carved figures carefully; one is a large dog baring his teeth, the second is a small bird in flight. "That I will-she'll remember you though without them, I'm sure of it."

Pulling himself onto his horse, he says, "If you're ever able look me up, stop in for a meal. The Seven go with you now!" Waving, Bronn spurs his horse, vanishing into the purple twilight haze.


	23. Sansa's Dream

After making the final preparations for their journey, Sansa sits quietly in thought, enjoying one last luxurious soak in the tub before returning to hard travel in the forest. Watching Sandor hone the edge of his greatsword on the stone hearth, she is filled with dread and deeply saddened the time has come for them to move on. She has enjoyed being amongst the Riverlands Clan and feels a great sense of gratitude for Erik's healing and the many provisions they have afforded her and Sandor. There will be much left unsaid when they leave on the morrow and Sansa hopes one day they will be able to return and repay their kindness.

Even knowing Gregor now searches for them, Sansa longs to stay in the security and comfort of the village. The very thought of the vicious knight sends shivers coursing up her spine and deep down she fears Sandor will not be able to defeat him. Since they left King's Landing she has watched him diligently train for several hours each day. Though she has witnessed her husband's lethal skill on more than one occasion she cannot shake the image of the two men squaring off at the Hand's tourney and more than anything she fears for his life should there be a confrontation.

Noticing her troubled expression, Sandor puts down his sword and leans down beside her. "What is it, Sansa?" he says, lathering her rag and gently washing her back. Moving her hair to the side, she pauses a moment and carefully phrases her words; she does not want to reveal her fear Gregor may defeat him without the clansmen's assistance. "Might we be safer here among the clansmen than on our own?" Married less than a fortnight, they have already come to a place where words are not always necessary between them, and Sandor understands the unspoken meaning behind her well chosen words.

Sighing, he takes a moment to gather his thoughts before answering. Thinking back to the day of the Hand's tournament, Sandor realizes Sansa most likely does not understand what she witnessed between him and Gregor. Blocking his brothers' blows, Sandor had only sparred with him, redirecting Gregor's rage in an effort protect Loras Tyrell. Knowing he could be expelled from royal service for challenging a sworn knight, he was careful not to engage Gregor in front of King Robert, and the king handsomely rewarded his wise course in addition to his tourney winnings.

From Sansa's perspective it may seem that he was merely trying to protect himself from Gregor or worse that he lacks the strength or ability to defeat him. Sandor did not spend his life living with Gregor without learning his weaknesses but he will keep this fact to himself; it will only serve to worry her if he confirms there is a chance their current situation will end in battle with his monstrous brother.

During the brief time Sandor has lived with her, he has come to realize the importance of not blurting out his every whim; he acknowledges he must learn to take her feelings into account if he wishes her to feel secure with him. It is only natural for Sansa to long to put down roots and she has seen enough of Gregor's raw brutality to understand their enemy well enough. Watching his brother decapitate his own horse had been barbarous even by Clegane standards and Sandor cannot even imagine how it appeared to those assembled who where previously ignorant or unaccustomed to Gregor's ways.

Gregor represents a constant fear to Sansa, he knows all too well. Beaten and abused by Meryn and Boros, Gregor is another in a long list of ruthless knights wanting to hurt her and take her freedom. He does not fault Sansa for desiring safety and wanting to leave the memories of King's Landing behind them. If he is honest with himself he is every bit as eager as she to start their new life somewhere-anywhere in fact, as long as it is far away from the intrigue of the game of thrones.

Tipping her chin up to him, Sandor replies softly,"No Sansa, we must leave- there's no way to avoid it. Gregor and Polliver likely will leave a trail of bloodshed through the Riverlands searching for us. We'll try hiding from Gregor first but I will kill him if it comes down to it, you best believe that. We cannot risk all of these people who have helped us for the sake of our own wishes, can we?" Turning her eyes away from him, she is glad he understands and yet ashamed he has discerned the true nature of her fears. Sansa reluctantly looks into his eyes. "No, no of course not, Sandor. It's just...well I was beginning to like it here, that's all."

Her voice sounds so very young and sad, reminding Sandor even though she may look a woman, in many ways she is still very much a girl, longing for a peaceful refuge to start her family. "Me, too," he says. He cannot lie to her and tell her Gregor will not find them. Getting her mind off things is the best tactic he decides, so he quickly strips off his clothes and climbs into the tub next to her.

Giggling she moves aside for him. "You already had your bath, you rascal," she laughs, blushing at the site of his nakedness. "After yesterday how can you still blush around me, Little Bird?" he barks out his harsh laugh, watching her face turn an even deeper shade of red. Enjoying her scandalized expression he grins wickedly and pulls her onto his lap. "We're only going to have this tub for a few hours more and I mean to enjoy it and my wife," he whispers against her mouth. "Now stop being shy and help me bathe woman." Smiling into the kiss, she nods and wraps her legs around his waist. Grabbing her under the thighs he pulls her flush against him, his manhood pressed tightly against her woman's place, changing her laughter into a gasp of desire.

Moaning softly, she maintains eye contact with him as she begins soaping his back and chest while grinding into his manhood. "Aye that's the way, Little Bird," he growls at her, his teeth grazing her neck as he licks her. "If every bath was like this I would never miss one." Laughing she rinses him off, all the while rocking her hips against his length. "Raise up out of the water if you want me to finish," she blushes at him in spite of her daring suggestion, lathering her hands thoroughly.

Grinning he raises to his knees, then sits back on his heels. His blushing bride has never been so brazen with him as she has been in the past day and he is both delighted and a bit uncertain, wondering what she will do next. Running her soapy hands over his buttocks she gently dips her hand in between them; she recalls overhearing her maids in King's Landing say the men they bedded enjoyed this sort of thing. Wishing she had mustered the courage to ask Shae for more details, she is nonetheless eager for his response. Sandor jerks in surprise and moans in spite of his shock, kissing her heatedly as he explores the inside of her mouth with his tongue, tightening his grip and pressure on her hips.

Rinsing him off she then focuses her attentions on his hardened member, quickly soaping him with both hands in long even strokes up and down his shaft, the slickness and friction working Sandor into a frenzied passion. Gently she presses him back into the water, then ardently begins stroking his manhood and testicles. Gaping, his passion blends with utter disbelief; he can hardly believe what she is doing to him. Sansa lets out a squeak of surprise when he suddenly lifts her into his arms and carries her to the bed.

"Where did you get such wanton ideas, Little Bird?" he growls against her mouth. "Some of the maids in King's Landing spoke of the men they laid with enjoying being taken into the mouth and caressed as I did to you just now. Once I fell in love with you I tried to pay close attention to their words so I would please you. Did you...enjoy it?" she blushes, still embarrassed to speak of it even though she enthusiastically tried it.

" _You_ please me, Sansa in every way. By the Seven, I can barely control myself every time I'm with you, woman," he grunts against her throat, sucking and gently biting her neck while she arches beneath him. Tracing her breasts with his tongue he inches her to the edge of the bed and raises her legs over his shoulders. Whimpering and arching her hips with need, Sansa draws in a sharp breath at the feeling of his warm tongue tasting her tender folds.

No longer caring whether it is proper, she grinds her hips into his mouth, fisting the furs beneath her and crying out with abandon as he languidly explores her woman's place. "That's it Sansa-hold nothing back with me," she hears him rasp against her skin before dipping his tongue inside her slit. Gasping loudly, Sansa cries out his name as he thrusts his tongue in a fast rhythm, the pleasure building to unbearable heights. Her entire body quivers before her peak tears a loud cry from her throat. Regaining her senses, she hears Sandor's deep laugh echoing throughout the cabin.

"That's the sweetest song you've ever sang for me, my wanton wife," he chuckles, his deep voice resonating throughout her body as he moves between her thighs. Entering her with one deep thrust, they both moan together in exquisite pleasure and Sandor cannot hold back his raw passion any longer. Taking her hard and fast, his manhood reaches a spot deep inside her with each thrust that quickly sends Sansa over the edge once more, sobbing out her release for a second time. The sound of her crying out his name unleashes Sandor's lust and he quickens his pace, grinding into her until his release overtakes him with a powerful force, leaving him unable to form words in his ecstasy.

Panting and clinging to each other, the couple cannot help giggling at the sounds of cheering and clapping in the distance. "Another show for the camp," Sandor grins at her. "That'll give the clan something to remember us by," he nuzzles her neck, watching Sansa's face and neck flush bright red with amusement. "Oh, Sandor, after this I will be too ashamed to leave the cabin tomorrow," she smiles in spite of herself. "Nice try, we're leaving at first light," he growls then snuggles closer to her before quickly drifting off to sleep.

* * *

_Wandering through the dense evergreen labyrinth, a smokey haze quickly descends over the path, nearly obscuring Sansa's vision. Sensing an unseen presence she pauses, calling out Sandor's name repeatedly as she continues onward. Yellow eyes peer out from the deep emerald foliage and the air is filled with the mournful howls of a large wolf pack not far up the winding trail._

_Hearing the chorus of wolf song reassures her; it is the sound of her family, of Winterfell and Lady; it is the sound of home, of the north. Suddenly a looming shadow giant bears down on her; it is somehow familiar, horrible and frightening. Sansa strains her eyes eager to identify the assaulter, as the mist clears she recognizes him -Gregor Clegane outfitted in full armor just as he had been the last time she saw him. Carrying his warhorse's oozing severed head securely under his arm, his eyes fill with rage as he spies her, then turning he raises his massive greatsword._

_Fiendish laughter thunders all around her and still she desperately calls out for Sandor's aid. Just as his greatsword slopes downward, she twists away but is unable to escape the great length of the blade. The greatsword's violent downward stroke almost meets Sansa's flesh; she cries out one last time before a massive direwolf leaps onto Gregor's back, sinking its enormous jaws into the fleshy expanse of his thick neck. Swinging his weapon wildly, he randomly slices through the air around him, roaring in anger at the animal, whose jaws remain firmly clamped onto him in spite of his efforts._

_Responding to his cries, more wolves appear-ten, twenty, then forty-more wolves than Sansa has ever seen in one place. Soon Gregor's body is overrun by the fierce beasts, each ripping and tearing into his flesh with abandon, crushing his armor with their iron jaws. "You are a wolf-a Stark of Winterfell sister," she hears Arya's voice whisper in her ear. "Arya-run!" she cries, then huddles into a ball, hugging her knees to her chest. Squeezing her eyes shut, Sansa cannot bear to watch Gregor's hideous demise as the wolves snarls grow louder and more ferocious._

_Suddenly a protective, safe presence descends over her, comforting her, allaying her fear; she feels strong warm arms surround her, pulling her close against a masculine, muscular chest. No longer able to hear the snarling wolves, the ripping flesh or Gregor's high pitched screams, Sansa's path is suddenly silent and peaceful once more. Snow begins lightly falling, bringing a wintry hush over the labyrinth and surrounding forest. She feels him rather than sees him, smells his leather doublet and the metallic shavings left on his pants from sharpening his greatsword Ice. Ned's deep reassuring voice fills her ears with familiar words: "In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths. So if you must hate, hate those who would truly do us harm. Sansa... Arya is your sister. You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you...and I need both of you, gods help me, even now. Trust your husband, my little Lemoncake, he will see you safe. One day you will be reunited with Arya and Jon, I will see to it." Ned speaks his words quietly, deliberately into her ear, in the same fashion he often spoke to her and Arya in Winterfell._

_"Father, please...don't leave me. What about Mother and Robb? Don't leave yet-I need you so! I didn't get to tell you how sorry I am for everything...I love you, please forgive me, Father." she chokes out, anguished tears streaming down her face and she pulls the arms closer to her. "Sansa, you must not dwell on the past. I love you as I always have; there is nothing to forgive. Winter is coming, you will see Arya and Jon again. Sandor is your family now; he will see you safe, Sansa-you and your children. You and Sandor will not see me for many years yet but one day we will all be together again, I swear it by the old gods."_

_Sobbing now, Sansa turns to face the arms embracing her and jerks back in surprise: it is Sandor's scarred face looking down at her, the burned side of his face twitching in amusement. "My love...Father was here, you missed him! It was you-your arms were holding me the whole time? I could not see you." Chuckling he pulls her closer. "You could not see me because you do not have faith in me Little Bird," he rasps quietly._

_Reaching to cup his burned cheek, she tearfully caresses his scars with her fingertips before whispering, "Forgive me my love. I will never doubt again, I swear it by the old gods and the new." His harsh laughter shakes her body still held securely in his arms. "You know I don't keep to any gods, girl." Smiling she replies, "Yes, I know-then I swear on my love for you and on our marriage." Slowly he nods, then lifts her up to his face. "That's more like it," he grumbles before covering her mouth in a deep kiss._

His strong arms pull her closer against his chest and Sansa feels Sandor's breath on her ear and his warm hand on the bare skin of her hip, gently shaking her. "Sansa honey, Sansa wake up. You're having a nightmare, Sweet-come on now." Her eyes snap open to see Sandor's concerned face. Wiping her tears away with his forefinger he waits a moment before asking, "Was it Joffrey-I'll go back and kill that little shit for scaring you in your dreams," he growls softly, carefully drying her cheeks.

"No my love...it was Gregor and my father and...you were there, keeping me safe." Taking in a deep breath, he pulls her tight against his chest. "Do you want to tell me about it?" Shaking her head she smiles up at him. "No, I'm fine now with you beside me. Maybe another time, alright?" Chuckling, he nods and pulls the covers back over them and Sansa falls into a deep sound sleep nestled safe in Sandor's arms.

* * *

Looking around the blackness of the frost-covered wood, Polliver spies a shallow cave just off the trail. Raising his torch, he peers inside for several minutes, then turns and nods to Gregor. "This should do real nice, keep them wolves away while we sleep. Have you ever seen anything like these damned beasts around here?"

Shaking his head, Gregor looks around to dozens of yellow eyes glittering just out of the firelight. "No, not once in all my days traveling through this shithole have I even seen so much as one wolf, let alone this kind of thing. I can't explain it, though Littlefinger said that girly man Lancel told Joff that Robb Stark uses sorcery to command an army of wolves-can you believe that?" Gregor barks out a laugh. "If I come across that Stark boy I'll pull his legs apart like a wishbone for this nonsense, just to be on the safe side-fuck his family sigil."

Polliver chuckles and hands him another wineskin."Shouldn't we have come across Tyrion's sellsword by now-what's his name, Ser Bronn-is it?" Shrugging, Gregor answers, "Who the fuck cares what his name is-I'm not after him, I want Sandor. My brother may be stupid but even he's smart enough to evade a common sellsword, believe that. Sandor will cut that little fucker in half if he comes across him, especially if he's got that sweet Stark cunt with him. No, we make for the Riverland Clans-the Cleganes have traded with them for generations. If Sandor would try and hide her anywhere, it would be with them."

Polliver turns around as a massive gray and white female direwolf snarls, then bluff-charges their camp, baring her teeth and snapping at them. As the men scramble to their feet, she turns and lopes into the forest, then lays down to watch them. Shaking his head, Polliver sheathes his sword. "What the fuck do you suppose they eat around here-I ain't never seen such big wolves in my life."

Gregor tosses the canteen to him. "Whatever they want, I guess-as long as I outrun you I'll be okay." Nervously laughing, Polliver has no doubt Gregor would do just that. Guzzling the last of the wine, he changes the subject. "I seen a few of them Riverland scouts last night-we should catch a few of them." Grunting in agreement, Gregor gnaws on a prairie chicken leg. "Aye, we'll put your skills to use, see what they know of my little brother."

All night the forest is filled with the howling and snarls of the pack. If Gregor didn't know any better he would say there are more wolves in the forest now than the previous night. After a few fitfull hours of sleep, Gregor arises to find himself alone and his horse loosed from his ties, having worked at them all night to escape the wolves. "Fuck! Tomorrow I'll hobble you!" Gregor shouts out into the forest.

Gregor hears several riders approaching the camp. Hiding inside the cave, he draws his greatsword before peering out to see Polliver with two Riverland scouts tied to their horses. The younger man squirms nervously while the much bigger older man holds his head high, wearing a defiant smirk. "Caught us some fresh meat did you?" Gregor laughs.

"I know you Gregor Clegane-I've traded with you many times. What the fuck do you mean tying me to my horse?" The older man snarls before spitting onto the ground. Squinting, Gregor approaches the man, "Braden-that you? The years have been rough on you, you old sod. Seen my little brother lately? I need to speak with him."

"That right?" Braden sizes Gregor up a moment. "No, can't say I have-though some scrawny greasy-haired sellsword came through a few days back, headed for Maidenpool. He's looking for Sandor too-said Tywin paid him good for his troubles since he was just made a Ser." Gregor draws closer, just about on eye level with Braden seated on the horse. "What did you do with him?"

Braden laughs, "Got him whored up and drunk off his ass then won his money, that's what!" Laughing, Gregor turns away. "You hear that, Polliver?" Whipping back around, Gregor grits his teeth at Braden. "Now I think you're lying-where's my brother?" he hisses at the man. Unperturbed, Braden leans down a spits once more. "Fuck you Gregor and fuck you too Polliver. I said I ain't seen him and neither of you bastards scare me. Now, either kill me or let me go-I don't have time for this shit today."

Smirking, Gregor agrees, knowing Braden is not much older than himself and an exceptionally dangerous foe in battle. Killing him would draw out the whole clan and Gregor doesn't want any more trouble-the wolves have him distracted enough as it is. Not wanting to risk losing his chance at Sandor he replies, "I'll let you go all right Braden but we keep the lad, you understand? Don't send anyone after us, either." Polliver steps forward, cutting through Braden's bonds. "Whatever you say-I couldn't give a fuck what you do. I'm done listening to your shit today; I'll see you in the Seven Hells, Gregor-I hear the septons are keeping the fires stoked for you, after what you did to Sandor." Wheeling his horse around, Braden kicks his stallion in the flanks and disappears into the dense brush.


	24. The Bond of Wolves

The ornate sept of Baelor towers in the distance, casting deep shadows over the streets of King's Landing. The mighty stone walls of the castle ominously loom over the smallfolk, eagerly gathering their meager supplies for the day. As he nears the King's Gate, Bronn recalls Sansa's last words as she held him close before he left the village. "For being a loyal friend to us...I have learned they are very hard to come by. I am sorry we will most likely never meet again. Please know you, Lollys and Shae will always be welcome in our home and at our table I swear it. I'll pray for you and your wife." Thinking of Sansa's kindness and gentle nature brings a smile to Bronn's face and for once he is proud of the service he has rendered.

Despite the dangerous air of the city, Bronn feels relieved to be home at last. Travelling hard the last sennight has taken its toll on his body; he looks forward to a hot bath, a warm comfortable featherbed and finally seeing his sweet little wife once more. Leading his horse into the stables, Podrick approaches and quickly takes the reigns as Bronn dismounts with a groan, stretching and rubbing his aching shoulders.

"My lord is eager to speak to you Ser Bronn." Chuckling low, Bronn wonders if he will ever get accustomed to hearing himself addressed in such a formal way. "Aye lad, I'll go to him at once. What is it now?" Podrick uneasily looks askance while hurriedly unsaddling the horse. "What is it, man? Quit fiddling with that horse and answer me," Bronn barks, turning the boy to face him; his behavior is even more edgy than normal and he is making Bronn nervous.

"Ser Bronn, it is not my place to interfere, forgive me." Pod shifts on his feet, looking at his hands. "Speak plainly boy, I will not punish you-tell me what troubles you now." Bronn frowns, anxiously awaiting his reply. Faltering Podrick begins, "Lord Tywin dispatched Ser Gregor after you against Lord Tyrion's wishes-did you meet up with him in Maidenpool?"

"No lad I didn't-hasn't Tyrion received the crow I sent?" Shaking his head, Pod mutters low, "No, Ser, I regret to say he did not. His father Lord Tywin intercepted the message and kept it himself."

"So now his bloody sire's been fucking with my messages, eh?!" Gritting his teeth, Bronn storms away, angrily heading for Tyrion's rooms, leaving Pod gaping in shock.

The inside of the castle is bustling with activity: tradesmen, dressmakers and chefs all hurriedly preparing for King Joffrey's upcoming wedding. Stalking the corridors of the Red Keep, Bronn can barely contain his anger. Bursting into the room, he glares at Tyrion. "So I hear even messages are no longer private here, is that right? What's the fucking point of making me a ser if I'm still to be treated like a common sellsword? I can take my wife and go you know-she has lands of her own that need tending." Sighing, Tyrion sets aside his book. "I know, Bronn-it was not my idea, I assure you. Father sent Gregor after you without my knowledge."

"I never met up with that bloody giant of a knight. I never even made it to Maidenpool-I sent you a crow. Did your father even bother to tell you?" Bronn asks, keeping his hand on his knife.

"He never intended you find Gregor, Bronn…he sent him into the Riverlands after Sandor." Tyrion speaks slowly, watching Bronn's reaction carefully. "You know what-this is your family shit to deal with, not mine. I did my job and you Lannisters can fuck off with the rest of your games. I'm going to see my wife now." Grimacing, Tyrion scrutinizes Bronn's demeanor. Shaking his head, Bronn curses, "Bloody Lannisters!" before slamming the door behind him.

* * *

The blue light of dawn filters through the filthy windows of Harranhal's sleeping barracks, casting long beams through the gaps in the wood paneled walls. Abruptly wrenched from her dreams Arya awakens with a start, her heart pounding furiously. She squints into the darkness, trying to focus on her surroundings. "Are you alright?" Gendry's deep voice rumbles in the bunk next to her. Yawning, she turns over and replies, "Yes, why do you ask?"

Groaning, he stretches his long limbs, working out the stiffness from another night spent crowded on the narrow cot. "You were calling out in your dreams again-it's the third night in a row. You keep repeating the name 'Sansa'-anyone you know?" So everyone heard me, she grumbles to herself. "Just a girl I knew a long time ago. We used to play together…before."

Before-everything in Arya's young life is divided into before and after arriving at King's Landing. Before leaving Winterfell and stupid prince Joffrey had Lady killed, before she chased Nymeria away to save her from the same fate. Before Mycah was killed by the Hound and her father was beheaded…it seems like a lifetime ago. Before she starting pretending to be a boy and Yoren was killed-before she arrived at Harranhal and started serving as Tywin Lannister's cupbearer as Arry; she is so far removed from her former life that she finds herself forgetting who Arya Stark is.

From the dusty shadows Hot Pie pipes up, breaking her train of thought. "I hear the guards say that's the name of the prince's betrothed-she's said to be very pretty and kissed by fire; maybe that's why you dream of her Arry," he chuckles at his own joke. "That's my sister all right," Arya thinks to herself, playing with the frayed edge of her worn-out blanket as she watches a mouse nibble on the crumbs covering the floor next to her bed.

Beautiful, ladylike Sansa, who always aimed to please and never gave anyone a moment's worry. Arya's only sister Sansa, who remembers the way it was before King's Landing, too. They fought over lemoncakes and chased each other through the godswood and cuddled close under the furs on stormy nights. Sansa, she knows what it means to lose her father and beloved direwolf too…Arya wonders where she is now, and if Sansa is somewhere thinking of her, too.

Arya remains unspeaking, hoping her friends will recognize she was in no mood for chatter. Her reverie is interrupted by the wooden door creaking open and two Lannister guards entering the barracks. "Time to get to work you lazy sons of whores!" shouts the first guard, kicking Gendry's cot and cackling loudly.

After breaking their fast on stale crusty old bread and weak vegetable broth, the prisoners slowly begin the day's work at Harranhal. Still reeling from her peculiar nightmare, Arya dawdles behind the others, drawing the attention of one particular soldier.

Noticing a Lannister helm sitting unattended on a nearby barrel, Arya creeps closer cautiously, wary of the owner she knows must be nearby. "A girl looks pale this morning." Jaqen H'gar's lilting Braavosi accent echoes through the stone walkway, causing Arya to jump in surprise as he steps out from the shadows.

Handsome, calm and soft spoken, Arya observes he never seems afraid, despite the horrors surrounding them-Jaqen is perhaps the only person in Harranhal that is not afraid. Though she has never heard him so much as raise his voice, a threatening air exudes from his person and every man in Harranhal, including the guards take great pains to avoid him as much as possible.

Jaqen H'gar, the mysterious prisoner she saved from the burning wagon, she immediately sees is now outfitted as a Lannister soldier. Arya remembers that fateful day with wonder. "The Red God takes what is his. You stole three deaths from the Red God and only death may pay for life," he had said softly and though is voice was barely above a whisper she had felt a chill inch down her spine. Offering her three deaths with which to repay the mysterious Red God, Jaqen has already killed the Tickler and she is now down to two names.

Arya has daily pondered which of the men she should name next; there are so many vile men on her list it makes the task of isolating two more difficult if not impossible. Since that day Jaqen seems to materialize out of nowhere whenever she is troubled or frightened. "Lovely girl, will you not tell a man what ails you?"

Remaining taciturn, she avoids his gaze and goes about sweeping the dirt covered walkway, gritting her teeth trying to contain any indication of the trepidation and morbid curiosity she feels with him. "A girl keeps her mouth closed. No one hears and friends may talk in secret-yes?" He smiles at her shrewdly, stepping forward as he tucks his helm under his arm. "Has he come for another name?" Arya wonders to herself, shifting slightly on her feet. He appears in no hurry for her reply and stands patiently watching for her gather her thoughts.

Having been troubled by the same mysterious dream for three consecutive nights, Arya misses Maester Luwin and wonders if Jaqen with his unusual Red God religion may have an interpretation for it. "Can a man interpret dreams?" she asks, tilting her head slightly to look up at him. Sighing, he shoos a chicken away with his foot and sits down in a stool. "A man can tell the meaning of some dreams, yes; why does a girl ask this?"'

Casting her eyes to the ground, Arya pauses before speaking. "Ever since Gregor and Polliver rode out, I have dreamed I am a direwolf. I smell the wet earth and feel the cold ground under my paws. I feel the wind on my face as I run through the forest following them and at night I sleep in piles of wet leaves. When they rest for the night I am there, howling to my pack, circling the men."

Raising his eyebrow, Jaqen stares at her a long moment. "Does a girl…know this direwolf?" Eyes widening, Arya cannot suppress her smile, then hesitates briefly before answering him; she doesn't want him to think she has lost her senses. "Yes as a matter of fact; I know her well."

"I see." He whispers, folding his hands. "Please, continue." Sitting beside him on the floor she speaks low, slowly wiping a rag over his helm in order to avoid attention. "Next I see my older sister, walking through an evergreen maze, frightened. She is calling to the Hound-he is the Mountain's brother, you know…" Jaqen nods, the gestures for her to go on. "But the strange thing is she does not call him the Hound-she calls him by his first name, as though they are friends or maybe something more…I can feel that she needs him to save her."

"Perhaps Sandor Clegane is no longer the Hound to her, has a girl considered that?" Such an idea is unthinkable to Arya-he hunted down her friend Mycah and killed him in cold blood. "No-no I cannot believe that!" she shouts. "A girl will not keep her secrets long if she raises her voice. Is there more to this dream lovely girl?" Nodding, she frowns, "Though I am a wolf, I speak words to her, telling her she is a wolf too-and she screams my name, telling me to run just as Gregor swings his sword at her."

Jaqen places his arm on her shoulder reassuringly. "This dream frightens a girl, yes?" Arya stares into his eyes, searching his face. Jaqen is gazing at her softly, slightly smiling with concern. Relaxing into his touch, she returns his smile. "Yes...it feels so very real and try as I might I cannot reach her. Then I turn back into the direwolf and I leap onto Gregor to protect her-and many other wolves come to my aid. The Hound comes running and pulls her close to him, shielding her with his body and carrying her away as his brother is torn apart." Anxiously she watches his face for any hints as to the meaning of her strange dream.

Closing his eyes, Jaqen draws in a deep breath and remains deep in thought for several moments, though other soldiers walk past and glance curiously at him. Slowly opening his eyes, he rises and rests both hands on her shoulders. "The lovely girl has seen the future." Arya stares at him hard, puzzled by his strange words. "What do you mean? I…I cannot see the future, at least never before have I done such a thing. My younger brother, however…he had dreams such as this, after he was hurt."

"It is not as unusual as a girl may believe. You and your sister share a deep connection forged in blood. Your sister is in danger from the Mountain, of that a man is certain. The direwolf is you, lovely girl-and the beast acts as an extension of you in your absence. The direwolf is female and she is full grown now-she means to protect your sister Sansa, as does the Hound, if that is any comfort."

How does he know Sansa's name? Nymeria…well, Sansa's Lady was her littermate and she would want to save her sister. "But why-why would the Hound of all people do that? He killed my friend Mycah and came for her when…when…" Arya stammers, knowing she cannot divulge what happened to her family in King's Landing.

Jaqen carefully watches Arya's incredulous face. "He loves her, a man can sense it. The Hound is as fierce a warrior as his name suggests and will help the direwolf save her from his brother." Alarm and bewilderment blur Arya's thoughts. The Hound-in love with Sansa? It is too strange to comprehend.

"No! No! Gregor cannot find her please, Jaqen-I name Gregor Clegane! Kill him at once!" she shouts angrily, pushing him with all her strength in frustration. Doesn't he understand? The Mountain may find Sansa any time now…I've had these dreams for days; there is no time to waste. Shaking her head, she cries, "I need him dead right now!"

Sitting back down, Jaqen slowly drains a cup of water, observing Arya out of the corner of his eye. "This a man cannot do. His death is certain but the time is not. Never fear lovely girl; your dream tells you truly: a massive direwolf and the Hound will save your sister. However a girl should consider taking the Hound's name off her lips. He has changed and he is your sister's husband now. Sandor will protect her at any cost, this a man has seen."

"WHAT?!" Arya screeches, drawing the attention of the other guards nearby. "That…that's impossible, it cannot be! Not my sister, she would never…with that ugly, mangy scarred dog! Are you certain?" Arya sputters in a rage. Chuckling, Jaqen stands to leave. "A man has said. Nevertheless, he needs another name lovely girl and will find you when the time arises."

Warily observing the exchange from the forge, Gendry rushes over to Arya as soon as Jaqen steps away. "What was that about?" he inquires quietly, eying her suspiciously as she watches Jaqen walk away and rejoin the other soldiers. "Nothing, Gendry…just leave me be, alright?" she snaps angrily, returning to her sweeping with ferocity.

* * *

Snuggling close under the furs, Sandor and Sansa awaken with heavy hearts. Looking around the rustic little cabin, the couple cannot help regret the necessity of leaving, though neither voices their feelings on the matter as they quietly gather their belongings.

For the first time since leaving King's Landing, Sandor straps on his armor and weapons with the assistance of the blacksmith's son. "Here, boy-for your trouble I thank you," he grumbles, roughly ruffling the boys' hair as he hands him a stag. The boy smiles at him, "I'm sorry to see you go, Hound."

Raising his eyebrow, Sandor grins. "Are you now? Sorry to see my coin go with me, I'll wager. My pretty wife, too," he adds, winking at Sansa. Shaking his head, the boy's laughs and blushes. "No…not that, I've grown to like you is all…you and your wife." Stepping back inside, Sansa hides behind the door, watching Sandor with the boy.

Sandor studies the young man a moment suspiciously. "Aren't you scared of me, boy? Everyone else is-you don't fear my scars?" Sandor's question comes out almost gently as he looks the boy in the face. "Oh, everyone knows you're a hard man, Hound…but you are nice to me. I hope to be like you one day."

Scoffing, Sandor ruffles his hair once more. "See that you aren't boy-it's no life for you. No, you best stay here and help your father with the blacksmithing. If I ever catch you out making trouble I won't be so nice, you'll see that soon enough." Nodding, the boy looks up at Sandor. "Alright, I promise Hound." Satisfied, Sandor hands him a bone-handled knife he took off a Lannister guard. "Here-you keep its edge sharp, you hear? And don't tell anyone you think I'm nice-I have a reputation, you know."

"Oh, thank you!" Smiling broadly, the boy grabs Sandor by the waist in a clumsy embrace before running off to show his father. Chuckling low, Sandor enters the cabin, grabbing Sansa by the waist as she hurriedly makes herself busy. "You've started spying on me now? I caught you Little Bird," he growls, kissing her face. "Sandor, you'll make a fine father my love," she smiles brilliantly at him, caressing his face.

"Aye, one day-when the time's right, Sansa." Placing a cup of moon tea on the table, Sandor neither looks at Sansa nor says a word before walking outside to the stables. "Yes, when the time is right my love," she calls after him before sitting down to drink.

Grumbling to himself, Sandor saddles Stranger, then packs Maiden's saddlebags. It seems every time he and Sansa find a measure of happiness, someone or something stands poised to snatch it away and he has grown tired of it already. When everything is packed and ready, Sandor heads back inside to Sansa.

Moving about silently, Sansa averts her eyes, not wanting to betray her deep sadness. "Little Bird," he begins, sadly watching her. "I know it is time to leave. I am ready my love." She says, wrapping her arms around his waist. "We'll be alright, I promise," he rasps, placing his arms around her shoulders and resting his chin on her head. "I know you will keep us safe, Sandor. I…I must apologize, I doubted you and I let you see it-it was wrong."

Looking down at her, Sandor shrugs it off. "I'm not one of your gods, Sansa-I am only a very faulty man-doubting me is only natural I suppose." Shaking her head, she touches his face. "My dream last night-it showed me how wrong I have been. I saw that you will keep me safe and that I should have more faith in you."

Bewildered, Sandor tilts her chin up to him, staring long and hard into her eyes. "Sandor, my father appeared to me and showed me that you will succeed in keeping us safe through everything the future may hold. We will live a long time together-and we will have a family, my love. I will never doubt you again."

Her dead father came to her in a dream? Sandor has seen too many strange things in his life to completely doubt her words. Yet it is all so strange and he is uncertain what to make of what she has told him. Sansa is looking at him with such happiness and confidence, he does not have the heart to question her strange dream or mock her belief in the gods. "Did he now?" he says softly, kissing her forehead. "If only half of your sweet words are true, I will be a very happy man indeed."

Smiling happily, Sansa draws his face down to hers and kisses him tenderly. "You will see my love, as I have." Several men ride up, interrupting their conversation. "Sandor, I see you and your bride are all ready," Tierney barks, looking over the horses. "Yes, Tierney, we are ready. I cannot thank you enough…for everything," Sandor rasps low, his voice dangerously close to breaking. No one has ever taken care of him as well as the clan; even the Lannisters only provided the most basic necessities and never treated him with kindness or compassion. He will never be able repay all the clan has done for him, especially for caring for Sansa during her illness and he finds himself at a loss for words. Extending his hand, Sandor vigorously shakes Tierney and Erik's hands, nodding at the men as his emotions threaten to overtake him.

Understanding Sandor's sentiments, Erik leans forward, handing Sansa several pouches filled with dried herbs. "My lady, it has been a pleasure. Please accept these medicines as a gift." Smiling, Sansa pulls him close to her in a gentle embrace. "Thank you Erik for everything. May the old gods bless and keep you for all the good you have done." Taken aback, he smiles and gently pulls away, unsure of Sandor's reaction to his wife's affectionate display.

Tierney steps forward and pulls her close. "Lass, it has done me good to meet such a fine, kind-hearted lady. I hope we will meet again in this life." Tears well up in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks, "I hope so too, Tierney…I hope so too. I will pray for you and everyone in the clan." Glancing around, she asks, "Where is Braden? Oh, Sandor-we must thank him, too-have you seen him this morning?"

Clearing his throat, Tierney looks over at Erik before answering. "Forgive Braden, lass-I sent him on an urgent errand that could not wait…I know he will be sorry to have missed the both of you."

Cocking his head, Sandor eyes the old chief closely. "Is that so-an urgent errand, eh?" Frowning, Tierney nods, growling his reply low. "Yes, and leave it at that, will you Clegane? I am chief after all-it is at my beck and call he serves, is it not?"

Chuckling humorlessly, Sandor replies, "Aye that it is, Tierney. Well, we'll be off now. Give Braden my thanks and goodbyes, will you?" Sansa nods fervently as Sandor lifts her onto Stranger's back. "Oh, yes, please do-and a hug from me as well."

Laughing, Erik beams at her, his eyes twinkling in amusement. "You give it to him yourself when you return, Sansa-he'll appreciate it more from you than any of us." Raising his hand, Sandor calls out, "Goodbye for now men, we'll be seeing you again one day." Turning his warhorse north, he gently spurs Stranger's flank and heads out of the camp for the last time.


	25. Preparing to Meet Gregor

With death rapidly enshrouding him, the young man's body lies in the brush, gutted earlier after angering the two men Nymeria has been following. The smaller man drove the knife into his belly yet he did not see fit to finish him off. Wondering why the man did not end his misery, she creeps closer to investigate.

Sniffing the man, he gasps but is unable to utter a sound. She picks up the scent of fear and the blood of others on him, though not as strong as the other two men carry. Deciding to leave him, she scouts the area south of the camp, picking up a vaguely familiar smell from the other man that left earlier.

Raising her nose, she inhales deeply; the aroma is stronger the farther she travels south into the woods. It is the scent of her human family; sniffing further she distinguishes the odor of the sibling of her little girl; it is the older girl that belonged to her littermate Lady.

Abandoning the two bloodstained men, the older girl's scent drives Nymeria deeper into the Riverlands. Calling to her pack, she continues trekking southward, judiciously following the man's tracks. Soon howling replies echo throughout the forest and the other wolves follow her trail, filling the night air with wolf song.

* * *

The sharp crisp smell of snow descends over the Riverlands as Sandor and Sansa make their way through the dark wooded canopy of trees. Cautiously avoiding the established trails in an effort to avoid travelers, Sandor scrutinizes their surroundings, ever alert to any changes in the environment.

It has been two days since they left the clan and so far they have seen no trace of anyone. Sandor fears this ominous indication of his brother's presence in the vicinity. He keeps his apprehension to himself however and allows Sansa to enjoy the scenery unburdened by his ever growing trepidation.

Stranger covertly moves through the greenery with cat-like stealth, his footfalls barely audible among the chattering squirrels and warbling songbirds overhead. Smiling, Sansa looks up at Sandor and rubs his arm gently, aware she must remain silent lest the sound of their conversation carry in the still forest.

Secure in her husband's arms, Sansa nestles down closer to Sandor, enjoying the feeling of his broad chest and muscular thighs surrounding her in the saddle. Wearing his light armor, she feels the warmth emanating from his body, the comfort and security lulling her into drowsiness as the miles stretch behind them.

The late afternoon sunlight illuminates their pathway and Sandor rises out of the saddle, breathing in deeply. "Storm's coming, bringing wind and snow," he whispers into her ear, the feeling of his warm breath sending enticing chills through Sansa in spite of their grave situation. "Time to find shelter, Little Bird." Sandor quickly dismounts then lifts Sansa out of the saddle and carefully sets her beside him.

After walking for several miles deeper into the tree line, Sandor spots the mouth of a shallow cave hidden beneath a canopy of moss. Carefully repositioning the greenery to the side, he peers into the opening for several moments before grunting in satisfaction and motioning for Sansa to go inside. As Sandor is about to follow, a snapping twig launches Sandor into battle mode, drawing both swords and glancing around him, ready to attack.

Seeing Braden making his way up the embankment, Sandor heaves a sign of relief before sheathing his weapons. "Expecting someone else?" he chuckles. "I thought as much, which is why I figured I'd better announce myself before you cut my damn head off. Never a smart idea sneaking up on the Hound." Offering his hand, Sandor shakes it warmly, his mouth twitching into a smile. "Glad it's you, Braden."

Peeking out cautiously, Sansa slowly exits the cave, smiling broadly before speaking softly, "We longed to say goodbye to you as we left the clan. I am so happy you found us. Tierney said you were on an important errand but we sorely missed you just the same."

Glancing sideways at Sandor, he takes Sansa's small hand into his own. "Did you now? Well, I am happy to see you again my dear." Sandor's eyes narrow at Braden, who nods once in acknowledgement, understanding he does not wish to Braden to say anything that may upset Sansa. She is still weak from her illness and Sandor can't bear to upset her in her fragile state.

Sansa does not witness this exchange as she gathers their provisions for their evening meal. "Did you finish your business? It is about to snow, I hope your errand will not detain you further. Please join us, won't you?" Sansa smiles, gesturing for him to get down.

"Ah, lass my business is just about finished at that. I am headed back to the camp; I am used to the weather and will not tarry, thank you my dear. Might I trouble you for a moment with your husband alone?"

"Of course. Please don't leave without saying goodbye." Sansa smiles before turning and going back into the cave. When she heard Tierney mention Braden was on an important errand as they departed, she suspected it may have something to do with Gregor. Sansa has allowed Sandor to believe she is oblivious to this piece of information and Sandor seems more at ease imagining she is unaware of the risk. For now she will allow him this small consolation, he will need all of his concentration in the upcoming days when the time comes to confront his brother.

Warily watching Sansa, Braden dismounts and Sandor quickly draws him closer. "Have you seen my brother?" Nodding Braden frowns, running the toe of his boot in circles over the damp earth. "I saw that son of a bitch and Polliver, too. They tied me and the other man with me to our saddles and questioned us about your whereabouts; he asked about your wife as well. I thought he was going to kill me there for a bit but settled on keeping the other man instead."

Sandor sighs deeply, surprised but happy his brother chose not to kill Braden. "Big risk you took, letting him catch you that way." Grinning, Braden starts to shake his head as Sandor interrupts him. "Don't deny it you old fox; a shadow cat couldn't sneak up on you. Who's the man he kept? He's in for a time with Polliver, you know."

Clearing his throat, Braden chuckles, "The man Tierney sent along was one of our camp prisoners; he raped several of our women and killed their husbands a month or so back. After she had been so ill we didn't want to scare Sansa so we were waiting until you left to execute him. When this situation came up Tierney figured that a better punishment for that miserable snake would be handing him over to Gregor."

"He would have fared better against your ax, Braden. You and Tierney are a pair of shrewd old foxes, I'll give you that." Sandor slaps him on the back, laughing harshly. Turning serious, Braden leans in closer. "Try as they might, they'll never get anything out of him. That bastard was locked up in stocks long before you arrived; he never even saw the two of you."

Pausing, Braden rests his hand on Sandor's shoulder. "I called Gregor's bluff and Sandor, he's so fired up thinking of getting his hands on your wife he let me go without a second thought; it goes without saying that he isn't normally so easily caught off guard. You watch your back, man; Gregor's blood is up and meaner than ever-I've never seen him like he is now. Makes me regret I didn't kill him years ago."

Grunting low Sandor nods solemnly. "Braden, you be careful now and get back to the clan as fast as you can. Gregor could be anywhere in these woods." Sticking his thumb out, Braden gestures behind him. "Gregor and Polliver are about a day's ride behind me, maybe more depending on the other man. You'll get your chance at him soon enough. I'm riding through the night and bringing some men back with me."

Sandor starts to shake his head but Braden holds up his hand. "I won't accept refusals. That pretty little lass of yours is a kind gentle creature and doesn't deserve to lose her husband or be ravaged by Gregor-so for once just shut up and take the help offered, will you Sandor?"

Grinning, Sandor reaches up and shakes his hand. "Aye, just this once." Braden glances over at the cave a moment, then speaks low, "One more thing I ought to mention-these hills are full of wolves. The pack must be fifty strong, maybe more and has been following Gregor and Polliver. Never seen anything like it."

"It's the scent of blood they're no doubt carrying," Sandor shrugs. "No, no it's something else, something I've never seen the likes of around here. A huge direwolf bitch is leading the pack." Braden eyes Sandor, who is visibly taken aback at the mention of a direwolf.

"The Starks, you know the direwolf is their sigil-Sansa and her siblings kept them as pets. Sansa's sister had one but ended up turning it loose on the King's Road to keep Robert from killing it for attacking his son." Raising his eyebrows, Braden shakes his head. "With winter coming, lots of things are happening I have no explanation for. You watch yourself, Sandor."

No longer hearing the sound of their voices, Sansa looks out to see Braden about to mount his horse. Running up to him, she wraps her arms around his waist in a tight hug. "Goodbye Braden, I thank you for your friendship and kindness to us both. I hope we will meet again." Startled, Braden smiles down at her, "You can count on it, lass. You watch yourself and take care to stay well now."

"And you too, Braden," Sandor calls. Pulling himself into the saddle, Braden grins, "Goodbye Cleganes!" Waving once more he turns his horse, riding off into the dusky afternoon.

After eating their evening meal, Sansa and Sandor huddle close under the furs. The faint sound of wolf song fills the night air, rousing Sandor from sleep. Drawing his sword, he sneaks a quick look around outside the cave; from the position of the moon he figures it is in the third phase, dawn will arrive shortly. "See anything?" Sansa asks dreamily. "No but they're getting closer I think."

"I hope so," Sansa whispers. "You want those fucking wolves closer?" Sandor asks incredulously. Sitting up, Sansa takes his hands in hers, a tranquil expression coming over her face. "I know you do not believe in the gods and I understand your reluctance to put faith in many things," she pauses, drawing a deep breath. "But you know that I do have faith in them and that I am devoted to both the old gods and the new. There are many things in Westeros that I do not pretend to understand-like the Targaryen dragon princess, the White Walkers as well as the red priestess with Stannis Baratheon."

Reluctantly Sandor nods, remembering him and Gregor laughed scornfully when Robert told them he wanted men sent to kill the young Targaryen girl. Despite successfully defeating her family in the past, Robert was unwilling to discount the potential threat of her return to Westeros. A once powerful man of battle himself, Robert's decisive action in the face of so little apparent threat left a lasting impression on Sandor.

Ever since he was burned, Sandor has held no gods and openly derided those who did. Though he openly disparages the gods there remains a part of him that is inquisitive and in moments of desperation he has called on them for Sansa's sake. Sandor's curiosity about them continues to grow stronger as the long foretold winter draws ever closer.

In Winterfell he heard stories of the undead White Walkers and many men he met stated one only needed to go north of the Wall to become a firm believer in their existence. There many things for which Sandor has no rational explanation either and as a man who has spent a lifetime in battle he finds it most disconcerting to know there are unseen threats for which he is unable to prepare.

Sansa's bastard brother Jon is rumored to have discovered the wights weakness for obsidian blades, a helpful piece of information Sandor has tucked away should the need to fight such creatures arise as he and Sansa travel north. Having witnessed the Stark children interact with their direwolves at Winterfell, Sandor has no logical rationalization for the intimate connection he witnessed between them. When Lancel Lannister claimed Robb Stark had a pack of wolves fighting with him against Joffrey, Sandor was inclined to believe him, though at the time he was not prepared to openly acknowledge such a phenomena.

Observing the serenity in Sansa's eyes sparks his curiosity all the more about her experience with her beloved direwolf. "Tell me about your pet direwolf, Little Bird." Startled, Sansa's eyes light up and a bright smile spreads across her face; she has always refrained from discussing such things with him, fearing he would mock her.

His willingness to discuss this with her thrills her so she readily curls up in his arms as she begins to speak. "My direwolf was like a sister to me-her name was Lady and she was beautiful and kind and gentle." Sansa smiles to herself before her eyes darken with grief.

"I remember you cried the entire way to King's Landing after King Robert had her put down." Bowing her head, Sansa nods sadly. "It was like losing a family member. You may find it hard to understand Sandor but wolves are a part of the Starks much like dogs are to Cleganes. They are loyal and protective and my siblings and I view them as family. Hearing their wolf song makes me feel safe and reminds me of Winterfell-of home."

Sighing deeply, Sandor listens to her with intense apprehension. How can he make her see that pets are one thing and wolves that live in the forest are quite another? Already he is tiring of her apparent unwillingness to comprehend the obvious danger confronting them. Choosing his words carefully he mutters, "I know you kept them as pets and all Little Bird but these are wild wolves damn it-we must be vigilant out here in the woods."

Pulling him close, she draws him back under the covers with her. "They are here to help us, Sandor-my father assured me of it in my dreams." Fuck me, not her dreams again, he sighs to himself while Sansa watches him closely, trying to gauge his response. Sandor reluctantly accepts her belief in the gods but wrestles with tolerating the blind faith she places in them.

Turning away from her, he struggles to contain his derision, not wanting to engage her in a contentious disagreement at such a time. "Where were the gods when he cried out to them for help as Gregor held his face over the brazier?" His mind screams. "Where were the Warrior and the Maiden when Gregor raped and murdered his way across the Riverlands and Casterly Rock? What kind of gods allows his monstrous brother anointed as a knight with their blessing?" Choking down his words, bitterness nevertheless seeps into Sandor's voice as he tries to patiently wait for her to continue. "Go on, please tell me about the dream."

Reassured he will not mock her, Sansa readily relates the nightmare; Sandor listens closely, amazed at the intricate detail she is able to recall and the intensity of her emotions; he has never been able to recall very much from any of his dreams. Ned told her Gregor would be defeated by a direwolf? That he and Sansa will not die for many years yet-and that they will have children despite her illness? Perhaps Sansa's premonition is the same special sense that Mother often said women possess…

"Sandor, Father showed me the error of my ways and how wrong I was for doubting your ability to defeat Gregor. He made me see that if we are to truly live as husband and wife I must trust you." Sandor glances at her out of the corner of his eye, unwilling to concede there may be a measure of truth in her dreams. Sansa's words are so full of sincerity, her eyes plead with him to understand and she reaches out and squeezes his hand. "I know you think I have lost my senses and that you may not believe in such things but please try not to worry. Come back to bed with me my love."

Staring at her incredulously for several long moments, he decides to let her words rest for the night-there will be plenty of time to meditate on them during their travels. If she feels safer believing such rubbish, he will not begrudge her desire to do so. Reluctantly he climbs into the furs beside her and after lying awake for a while worrying a on her strange words, Sandor falls back into a sound sleep.

* * *

Gasping loudly, Arya sits bolt upright out of a sound sleep. Drenched in a cold sweat, her heart is pounding so hard she is afraid it will jump out of her chest. Though it is not yet daylight, she hears the guards stirring outside the barracks and rises up when the door opens softly. Stealthily, Jaqen slips inside, carefully pulling the lever down just enough to stop anyone from entering before making his way over to her with a grin. Sitting beside her on the bunk, he studies her face with concern. "Lovely girl, have you once more been disturbed by the same dream?"

Sighing, Arya rubs her eyes. "Yes and its getting worse. How did you know?" Smiling, he pats her leg. "A man has ways, and friends may help each other, yes?" Smiling, Arya begins relating her dream. "Last night it was the same dream but with more detail-I could see my sister and she was wearing a blue dress with her hair loose around her shoulders, longer than I remember. I smelled the fear pouring off of her-she had tears running down her cheeks as she scrambled away from Gregor. I felt such rage that I leapt onto his back and this time I felt my paws make contact with his armor and my claws digging into Gregor's body."

Jaqen places a hand on her shoulder and closes his eyes. "Yes, a man senses it. Is there more a girl may tell?" Arya hesitates before continuing, "I…I could not let him hurt her! I was desperate so I bit down deep into his neck! Jaqen, this time I could feel my teeth sink into his flesh and taste his blood and feel his screams vibrating into my throat." Panic rises in her voice. "Please Jaqen tell me-what does this mean? Has Gregor already hurt my sister?"

Taking her small hands in his, Jaqen kneels beside her and closes his eyes, meditating for several long moments as he holds her. Drawing in a deep breath, he turns and looks into her eyes thoughtfully. "The future you dream of has drawn near-the time is at hand for your sister and Gregor to meet in the forest."

Arya begins shaking violently, her mind racing with fear, "What can we do? Please Jaqen!" Pausing, he takes her hand once more in his. "Lie back down and let the dream come to you once more. When you are there, let loose the direwolf within you and you will protect your sister and her husband. Call to the other wolves to help you-use the strength given to you as the direwolf in the dream to protect her. It is vital that a girl holds nothing back-fight as one with the direwolf and together you will succeed in saving her-this a girl can do."

Blinking in surprise, Arya nods slowly with comprehension. "Do you know if I will succeed, Jaqen?" Chuckling, he pats her hand. "Much depends on a girl believing in her own strength." Taking in several deep breaths, Arya lies back down and repeats Syrio Forel's teachings out loud and Jaqen soon joins her. "Swift as a deer. Quiet as shadow. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine. Fear cuts deeper than swords. The man who fears losing has already lost."

Smiling, Jaqen stands to leave. "Remember what your dancing master taught you. A man will be waiting for your return, Arya Stark." Wondering how he knows her name, Arya gapes as she watches him leave, hearing his soft laugh as he closes the door. Lying back on her bunk, she suddenly feels a spirit of courage and power flowing through her-in her heart she knows it is the of the spirit of the Starks and their direwolves joining with that of Syrio Forel and his teachings strengthening her, hardening her resolve and mettle. "I will kill Gregor," she repeats to herself. Fierce and indomitable, Arya closes her eyes and waits, prepared to conquer Gregor in her dreams with all her might.


	26. Sandor and Gregor Meet Once and For All

The howling of the wolves fill the early morning hours and Sandor still is having difficulty falling asleep, so greatly disturbed as he is by Sansa's dream. There is much he does not claim to understand; yet more than that, the utter peace Sansa seems to find believing such nonsense worries him. She needs to get her head out of her fucking dreams and face reality once and for all if they are to survive Gregor and whatever else might be headed their way and he has run out of ways to get through to her.

In King's Landing no one in court ever claimed much devotion to anything but themselves. Never has he seen anyone put such trust and faith in the gods or dreams and Sansa's devout religious beliefs are straining his patience with her. After much tossing and turning, Sandor finally falls into a fitful asleep with Sansa peacefully snuggled beside him.

A sudden blizzard descends upon him as he leads Stranger on foot through the winding craggy ice slopes leading north. "Where the fuck am I?" he growls, looking around for Sansa. "I am here beside you, husband," she smiles, reaching out for his hand and kissing it several times. "Do you know where we are?" He turns to her but instead of Sansa, it is her brother Jon walking alongside him through the snow drifts.

Drawing his sword, Sandor reels back until he recognizes the young man. He remembers the bastard son of Lord Eddard from his trip to Winterfell long ago with King Robert, always standing beside the family but yet not quite fitting in with the rest of the children. "Damn it boy don't sneak up on a man like me, you here? It'll get you killed one day," Sandor shouts, lowering his sword.

Now a man grown, Jon is bigger and broader with battle scars of his own, dressed in all black clothing with massive furs covering him, and he holds a great Valyrian sword in his hand. "You are headed for the Wall, Clegane. You bring my sister out of harm's way to this land of ice, where we can protect our family together. Arya will join us, Father has shown me." 

"You Starks and your gods…I don't believe in them; your sister knows that. Your father is dead, boy. I saw Ser Illyn take off his head myself; I'm sorry I could not stop him." Sandor shouts above the howling wind. 

"I would not expect you to understand Clegane, being a Westerman. Winter is coming for all of us and the time has come to for us to put aside differences and unite. You saved my sister; it is more than anyone else has done for her, even her own blood. We will make our own family now that winter will shortly come upon us and we will see each other through the darkness to come."

Puzzled, Sandor looks around and then leans in close to Jon. "Where is the Little Bird's mother and the young wolf? What of them?" Jon shakes his head and looks away. "I am no longer able to see them; I do not know and Father does not say. I still dream of the younger boys Rickon and Bran, though I have seen Theon Greyjoy striking a terrible blow to Winterfell." 

Gritting his teeth in rage, he shouts above the wind, "I will go and return the Little Bird's home to her family if it's the last fucking thing I do on this earth, you best believe that boy. I will kill every Ironborn I see for this! I'll burn their damn stronghold to the ground for this and lay waste to their bannermen. Not one of their fucking drowned gods will be able to stop me!" Sadly Jon shakes his head. "You must not go there, Clegane. You must keep Sansa safe; our time will come."

Chills convulse through Sandor's body as he watches Jon walk off into the snowstorm with his mighty direwolf beside him, as pure white as the snow at his feet. "I will, Snow-I will keep her safe or die trying, I swear it," Sandor calls after him. Jon turns once more back toward him and after nodding once, disappears over the ridge. "You won't die Clegane. Let Nymeria help you as Ghost helps me; they are Starks too, Clegane, you must accept it."

Sitting bolt upright, a cold sweat drenches Sandor; he sees Sansa beside him, running her hands over his chest with concern. "Are you feverish my love?" she asks worriedly. "No, no Little Bird, it was just a dream." Raising her eyebrow to him, she asks, "Do you wish to tell me about it?" Sighing, he pulls her down next to him, "Just go back to sleep, alright?" Giggling, she cuddles close to him.

The early light of dawn awakens the couple and once more they silently dress and pack their things hastily. Still shaken from his vivid dream, Sandor rubs his eyes, trying to clear his thoughts, his wife consoling rubs his shoulders, sensing something weighs heavy on his mind. As Sansa rises and begins dressing, he reaches around her waist and ties his fighting knife into her sash. Sandor knows she does not know how to use it; she nevertheless allows him this, thinking it will give him peace of mind if nothing else.

"If anyone tries to grab you, wait until they are close and stab anywhere you can, preferably the eyes or in the neck." Cupping his cheek, she kisses him softly. "Thank you, I'll try my best." Carrying their bags out of the cave, Sansa sees him suddenly stop dead in his tracks and draw his half sword. "What is it?" she whispers, then watches as he backs into the cave. Peering around the weathered corner is a massive direwolf. With a thick and luxuriant coat, it stands as large as a bear, its bright yellow eyes glittering as it scans the interior of their shelter cautiously. Sniffing the air, the beast recognizes Sansa and bolts past Sandor as fast as a cat; frozen in astonishment, he looks on in amazement as the huge creature begins whining and dancing at her feet. "Nymeria! Oh Nymeria you've come for us! How I've missed you, girl-look how big you've grown!"

"Sansa be careful, for fuck's-" Sandor shouts as Sansa bends down, hugging the direwolf's neck. Sandor watches in amazement; his delicate wife ruffles the fur of the huge animal with tears of happiness running down her face; he cannot help but notice that Sansa views the fearsome Stark sigil as a beloved friend. "Arya did not want to chase you off, you know; she only wanted to save your life."

Smiling broadly, she turns to Sandor, "My love, this is Arya's pet Nymeria-she was just a pup the last time I saw her." Standing stock still he grunts, "Yeah, me too-she was as big as a dog then." Noticing his hesitation, she gently coaxes him closer. "It's alright Sandor, she won't hurt you. Hold out your hand so she may smell you, just as you would one of your dogs." Slowly Sandor approaches the direwolf, his sword at the ready; to his surprise she wanders right up to him, wagging her tail and licking his extended hand enthusiastically. "Oh Sandor, she likes you-I knew she would!"

"She'd bloody well better, if the bitch knows what's good for her," he barks roughly, a twinkle in his eye betraying his delight at being accepted by Nymeria, causing Sansa to laugh at him. "She was in my dream, remember?" Sandor grins, leaning down and patting the animal on the head. "Aye, so you said; you believe your father sent her, do you now?" Sansa's eyes light up at hearing him offer up her dream as the reason for her sudden appearance. "Yes, I do-it is the only explanation. I know you want to laugh at me, Sandor, it's alright." Shaking his head, Sandor grunts, "Well it seems she came to find you, love; I'll not laugh at that. We'll keep her with us."

Offering Nymeria a piece of dried meat, the direwolf begins following his every move around the cave. "Not every meal will come so easy, you hear? You gotta work for your meals," He growls at her, causing her tail to wag ferociously against his leg as he hands her another piece. Abruptly, Nymeria dashes out of the cave and into the dense brush.

Sansa starts to follow, only to be stopped by Sandor's outstretched arm. "Wait love; you hear that?" Pausing, Sansa strains her ears and shakes her head. "Let me go out there first; stay here." Unsheathing both his greatsword and half sword, Sandor slowly edges around the corner, weapons at the ready, then roars in a rage and slashes wildly as he advances out of the cave. Following him outside, Sansa sees an unfamiliar man bleeding on the ground, severely wounded in the arm.

Quickly she runs and hides in a nearby thicket, crouching low as the clashing of steel rings in her ears. "Polliver you sick son of a whore! Don't you know any better than trying to sneak up on the Hound? I suspect my brother sent you in first; it was only fair he sends me a bait dog to warm up on," Sandor growls low, kicking the man in the ribs. "Get on your feet and let's get on with it; I can't waste all day on the likes of you." Sheer terror fills the man's eyes as he scrambles to his feet, grappling for his sword in the wet dirt. As soon as Polliver's hand makes contact with the weapon, Sandor delivers a strong downward blow to his shoulder, nearly cutting the man in half with such force his sword is momentarily lodged in the ground beneath him.

Every instinct tells her to turn away but being reunited with Nymeria awakens the Stark wolf in Sansa, calling her to watch the battle unflinchingly and witness the violent toll her freedom has exacted from her husband. Whimpering and spitting blood, Polliver tries in vain to reach for his sword, the shock of his grievous injury rendering him unaware the whole left side of his body dangles eerily separate from the rest his torso.

Pacing, Sandor stands over him, watching him closely. "I can see you've got fight left in you, and are counting on me to give you a quick death. But since you've always been such a sadistic fuck I think I'll let my wife's wolves finish my work here." Polliver struggles to respond, clawing the ground beneath his hands for purchase.

Ignoring Polliver bleeding and gurgling at his feet, Sandor quickly scans the area. Deep threatening laughter echoes against the granite walls and finally Gregor Clegane shows himself, riding up on a horse even bigger than Stranger. "Little Brother! So you did run away with the Stark cunt after all-fuck me when Tywin offered it as a possibility I didn't think you had enough guts to do it." Turning to Sansa, he licks his lips, "She's even sweeter than I remember, Sandor-it will be my pleasure to show her what dogs can do to wolves."

Sandor regards his brother with a murderous gleam in his eyes Sansa has only seen once before, when he rescued her the day of the riots. "Hmm, tired of fucking all of the smaller soldiers in Tywin's army brother? You know Loras Tyrell is now serving Joff; he's probably lonely for Renley y now and much prettier than any of your poor wives, may the gods have mercy on them. You should seek him out next time you're in King's Landing."

Shouting in fury, Gregor leaps off his horse while unsheathing his immense greatsword; Sandor easily parries the blow and takes a defensive position between his brother and his beloved wife. Making the sign of the Seven, Sansa begins praying. "Warrior, please help my husband defeat his brother, who has viciously violated your laws after taking his knightly vows. Maiden, please protect my honor and let loose the rage you have gentled in my husband. Stranger, claim Gregor's life for the many he has unjustly taken from you," she repeats in a whisper.

The still morning air is shattered with the sound of swords clashing, enraged shouting and metal scraping against metal. Huddled low in the shrub, Sansa's panic fast turns into awe witnessing Sandor's incredible speed and skill; watching him wielding both swords with deadly precision it occurs to her she has never seen him fight at his maximum capability. The unadulterated hate in Sandor's eyes is almost as frightening to Sansa as the battle itself and even Gregor seems caught off guard by his brother's furiously powerful, brutal tactics.

Gregor's eyes flicker briefly toward her and in a moment of inexplicable boldness she stands up out of the thicket and faces the giant knight, her eyes fearless and confident though her body violently trembles with terror. Taking advantage of his distraction, Sandor sidesteps his brother's blow and slices through his greaves, hamstringing Gregor with a sharp violent thrust of his greatsword directly below the knee cap.

Cursing he falls to one knee, slicing through the air in a desperate effort to counteract Sandor's approach; now it is Sandor's turn to laugh threateningly. "That armor slows you down brother, or is it old age? I don't recall you being such an easy mark." Bellowing, Gregor staggers toward his brother, swinging his greatsword wildly, tearing through Sandor's tasset, shallowly ripping into the flesh of his upper thigh. Cursing, Sandor leaps to his feet; his ferocity renders him impervious to the pain, singularly focused on protecting his wife.

"Never fuck with a man whose greatsword is an amalgam of Valyrian and standard steel, little brother," Gregor grunts, then lunges toward Sansa. "Go Sansa-go now!" Sandor shouts, blocking his brother's path with a crushing blow to the head. Bravely standing her ground, Sansa calls to Nymeria, her body shaking, the sight of her fear wickedly humorous to Gregor in spite of the deep wound pouring blood from his scalp.

Pausing and gripping his leg, he struggles to step over a dying Polliver, his scornful laughter filling the forest. In the distance the sound of wolf song reaches their ears, momentarily diverting Sandor's attention. Gregor sharply backhands his brother with a mailed fist; unable to stay on his feet for more than a few moments, the massive knight staggers one step at a time toward them. Moving between his brother and his wife, Sandor slashes at Gregor's impenetrably thick armor, slicing through the fastenings of his breastplate. Spitting blood from his mouth, Sandor once again parries against Gregor, holding both swords defensively. "Sansa for the love of the Seven get the fuck out of here!"

"No I cannot leave you; we are stronger together, trust me. Nymeria, hear me: Sandor is hurt; you must help us girl!" Crowing, Gregor spits his words venomously, "No bitch can save you from me, you wolf cunt; come here so I can taste you." His foul words enrage Sandor once more and the men resume the battle, each gaining and losing ground repeatedly, tiring from their wounds. Deafening howls of an enormous wolf pack resonate throughout the forest and suddenly the animals close in on them, their collective footfalls kicking up a large cloud of dust as they scamper around Sansa and Sandor, interrupting the fighting. Gregor stops and looks around, momentarily sidetracked by the uncanny sight surrounding them. "Did you call them here wolf bitch?"

Seeing the large pack, Sansa sprints to her husband's side, clutching his arm. "Sandor, they are here!" The wolves growl and bark threateningly at Gregor and Polliver, keeping Gregor cut off from approaching the couple; just as quickly as they appeared, the ferocious animals begin slowly backing away from them. "Ha! You fucking Starks and your wolves-I'll make rugs out of all of them!" Gregor barks roughly and before his brother can reply Nymeria creeps out of the thicket, her fur standing on end from haunches to tail and ears laid flat against her head.

Snarling low, she walks in among the other wolves, which sniff, bark and yip at her as she passes between Sansa and Gregor. "Nymeria, I knew you would come!" Sansa cries hoarsely, patting her on the side tenderly; in that moment Sandor realizes she had been close to Sansa the entire time he fought Gregor, biding her time like the predator she is. Stopping to sniff Sansa a moment, she positions herself next to Sandor, nuzzling his hand gently. Smelling the blood oozing from his thigh, she inhales deeply and whines softly before turning her attention to Gregor.

Slowly she begins circling the giant knight, growling and baring her teeth, never taking her eyes off of him. Sansa slowly backs away, her hand gently tugging on Sandor's arm suggesting he do the same, the couple easing their way back into the thicket. Gregor snarls at the direwolf, then shouts, "Let's see what you're made of, you Stark bitch!" Before he can finish his words, Nymeria leaps onto his back, viciously ripping into the exposed flesh around the neck of his armor, reducing Gregor's curses to screams of pain and sending blood gushing from her immense jaws.

Transfixed, Sansa stares in shock; it is the scene from her dream brought to life before her very eyes. Soon more wolves join the attack, each grappling for any available body part as Gregor thrashes, only succeeding in loosening his breastplate further and giving the beasts more opportunity to strike. Roaring blood, Gregor carelessly swings his sword at the wolves; in response more and more animals clamp down on his arms and torso, dragging him to the ground.

Closing his eyes, Sandor grips his beloved wife so tightly he conscientiously has to remind himself to relax his grip as he turns Sansa's body away from the gruesome assault. Glancing over at Polliver, he sees former Lannister interrogator and torturer lying frozen, unable to look away, his eyes brimming with terror as several of the wolves break off and turn on him, ripping his throat out and eagerly tearing his body to shreds.

The air is filled with the sound of rending flesh, gurgling, horrified screams and snarling wolves; it is a sound neither Sandor nor Sansa will ever forget. Sickeningly gruesome, the sound fills the young woman with an mystifying sense of strength, and family that she will treasure the rest of her life. She holds it deep inside, never giving voice to her feelings, afraid no one but another Stark would understand her pride in Nymeria. It is the ultimate justice that Arya's beloved direwolf, a fellow creature of the north and Winterfell, rescued her and Sandor from the Lannisters.

After Gregor is subdued, Nymeria relaxes her grip on his throat and yelps several short barks; the rest of the wolves retreat into the wood. Dragging his body over to Sandor, she throws Gregor at his feet, then moves several feet away from the couple and sits down. Puzzled, he nudges Sansa to raise her eyes; after peering out at the great animal she soberly looks at her husband. "She is offering him to you as a sort of gift; she means for you to deal the death stroke."

Nymeria has never looked more vicious than now to the couple, her fur drenched in blood, her fangs stained red and they are grateful to this fearsome living embodiment of the Stark sigil just the same. Reaching out and ruffling her fur, Sandor slowly approaches her, offering praise along with a small piece of meat, eliciting satisfied grumbles from the huge creature. Nosing Gregor's body, she once again steps back and sits patiently beside Sansa, offering her prey to him.

"Sansa, I'll understand if you want to turn away; go on now, if you want," Sandor mutters low without meeting her eyes. "No," she replies, her voice surprisingly strong, "My father called for his execution years ago; I will witness the end of Gregor Clegane's miserable existence in his stead."

"Alright then, as it pleases you," he answers, lifting his brother's head onto a nearby rock and with one forceful downward blow of his greatsword, Sandor ends his brother's brutal reign of terror once and for all. Nymeria lumbers forward and licks Sansa's face, then nudges Sandor, wagging her tail and yipping excitedly. Distant howls call from the forest and after glancing at them once more, the massive direwolf races off to rejoin her pack.

Tears of relief stream from Sansa's eyes; Sandor draws her close to his chest, resting his chin on the crown of her head. The weary couple stare at the lifeless body of Gregor Clegane for a long while, each deep in contemplation, pondering the astonishing way his end transpired. "His life ended as he lived, violently and brutally, though you mercifully gave him a quick finish. Will you bury him my love?" Sansa whispers softly, breaking the stillness. Shaking his head, Sandor murmurs, "No; let him feed the animals and serve a good purpose for once." Nodding Sansa pulls him close, listening to the wolf song fade into the distance.


	27. The Red God Requires a Life for a Life

The warm afternoon sun shines high above them, the stench of the fallen men drawing birds of prey to the feast. Collapsing down onto a fallen log, Sandor grunts as he fumbles to remove his armor, blood seeping out of the jointed metal around his thigh. "Help me get this off little bird," he rasps, a cold sweat dripping down his cheeks. She can see his pallor is grayish now and he trembles uncontrollably as Sansa kneels beside him. First she works at unfastening the breastplate then deftly removes his tassets and poleyenes, unleashing a mixture of blood and fluid from the laceration in his thigh.

"Cut these damn pants off me" he stammers, "Dig around a bit to make sure there's no material in that wound." Sansa takes the fighting knife secured in her sash and carefully slices up the inseam, then tentatively pulls the material away from his skin. "Alright my love; easy now." Underneath she scrutinizes the wound made by Gregor; though it is the width of his muscular thigh the clean is cut and much more shallow than she expected after having seen the massive blade that made it. "It's not so bad my love, not bad at all," she answers shakily. "Let me stitch it after I clean it, you should heal up fine and be ready for travel in a week or so."

"Bugger a week. Give me some wine now damn it and a stick-one without mud on it." he growls, wincing at the pain, sweat drenching his forehead. After taking several swigs, he grits his teeth and nods to her. "Go on then, girl; do what you have to do." Searching around, she finds a clean evergreen branch and rinses it off with the wine, then hands it to him.

Hesitating, she carefully pours the wine over the cut while Sandor hisses, biting down hard on the tender sapling branch, hardly managing to stay still while she works. Trying to ignore his pain, she carefully commences cleaning and sowing the wound. Softly she begins singing the Mother's Hymn as she tends him, the sound of her voice soothing and calming the agitated man. After examining her handiwork closely, she gingerly applies some of the herbal ointments Erik provided them.

Sandor grunts out his thanks and kisses her hand, then begins coughing hoarsely. Kissing him gently, she slips off her shift, and then soaking it in melted snow she bathes his face and hands clean of the sweat and blood clinging to his flesh. "Using your undergarments to bathe me woman?" he barks out a laugh. "Might be you won't need them anyway after I rest up a bit." Smiling, Sansa is relieved to hear him jest even though he is clearly suffering.

In the distance the couple hears the thundering sound of riders fast approaching from the south. "Let's get to the cave, Sansa; hurry now," he rasps hoarsely. "No love, I don't think it is wise to move you yet. Besides I cannot do it by myself; you are too big."

"Bugger that nonsense little bird; I'm not asking you. Just help me get on my feet; we don't know who's riding up and we're sure as the Seven hells not waiting out in the open to find out. Tywin may have sent reinforcements or bounty hunters as bad as my brother. Do as I say woman," he grunts, slowly pulling himself up. With Sansa supporting him under one arm they limp their way back into the cave.

* * *

 

The Lannister watchmen roll up massive iron gates of Harranhal, admitting the second patrol of foot soldiers for the day. Warily Arya watches from the hallway leading to the galley, setting the long tables for the afternoon meal. "Get me some water now, boy!" A large Lannister soldier barks at Arya, thrusting his skin into her hand; suddenly shaking her out of her daydreams of her sister and brothers and their days gone by at Winterfell.

Glowering silently she fills it and hands it back, "You're welcome milord," she hisses, petulantly smirking at him. "Hmm, you're a girl." he grunts, eyeing her while he drains the waterskin. "Best be glad I'm beat tired brat or I'd whip you for that smart tongue of yours. Good thing for you you're Yoren's cunt or I'd take you myself, tired or not."

Turning away, Arya cannot resist replying, "Good thing for you you're Gregor's pet or I may just kill you myself. I like killing fat men." Smirking at the man's shocked expression, Arya ill suppresses a short laugh as she continues cleaning the tables.

"A girl still has more courage than sense," the soft voice of Jaqen Hagar fills the galley. "Jaqen! Where have you been? I've been waiting for your return!" she whispers, handing him a roll of bread. Grinning, he looks at her in mock surprise. "A man has his own duty, same as a girl. Is there something a girl wishes to tell?" Shoving him playfully, Arya snickers, "You know there is." Jaqen sits on a stool on eye level, grinning at her. "Tell me."

Smiling she excitedly bounces on her heels. "Jaqen, I did it-I helped Nymeria and her wolves kill Gregor!" Gendry looks over from where he works, raising his eyebrow at them. Looking around, Jaqen detects the other guards glancing towards them and draws her close. "A girl must lower her voice if she wishes to keep her secrets," he says, bringing his finger up to his lips.

"Oh, yes of course," she grins sheepishly, then continues in a low tone. "Jaqen I did just what you said and it worked!" Jaqen smiles knowingly. "A girl has more power than she knows, this a man has seen, and may become still more powerful yet if she is of a mind to learn and obey." Eyes widening, Arya whispers, "You could teach me how to do…what you did to the Tickler? Jaqen, I want to learn."

"A man will take you where he was taught, far and away across the Narrow Sea. A girl has many names on her lips: Joffrey, Cersei, Tywin Lannister…" Arya nods and finishes her list. "Weese, Dunsen, Chiswyck, Polliver, Raff the Sweetling, the Tickler, Amory Lorch, Ilyn Payne, Meryn Trant."

"In Braavos a girl could offer them to the red god, one by one." Arya purses her lips, weighing his words. "The Hound has killed Meryn Trant; a man no longer sees him, only the helm of your goodbrother. There is also another he has taken." Sighing, Jaqen searches her eyes. "Did a girl remove the Hound from this list?" Arya nods sadly, "Yes but Jaqen I think it was too late. I saw through Nymeria's eyes and before I could react Gregor struck the Hound in the leg. I don't want my sister to lose her husband, not after everything…" Looking away, Arya trails off, her shoulders slumped. "Can you help him-please Jaqen?"

"It is only too late after the thing is done, no sooner." Closing his eyes, Jaqen draws in a long deep breath and sits quietly for several minutes in meditation. Arya watches him anxiously, bouncing on heels and worriedly wringing the rag in her hands. After several long moments, Jaqen opens his eyes. "Your goodbrother will live, Arya Stark. He has returned to the red god a life in exchange for his own, this a man has seen; Polliver, the Hound has returned his life for the many he has taken here."

Grinning, Arya looks around them, then impetuously throws her arms around his shoulders, bringing soft laughter from the man. "Oh, thank you…I want to learn, please Jaqen, will you teach me? I want to learn to do it too." Nibbling on the roll, he eyes her carefully. "Yes, but we must leave tonight-if you would learn you must come with me across the Narrow Sea."

"Now that I have seen my sister and my direwolf, I'll rest easier knowing they are safe and well. But my mother and my brother…I need to find them Jaqen, I don't know what has happened to them."

"If you are to come to Braavos a girl must leave these behind; the time will come for you to deal with family. A girl must obey; no more playing games lacking honor, understand? Such will not be tolerated among the Faceless Men." Searching his face, she readily agrees. "A girl will obey." Assenting, he nods solemnly. "A girl and her friends will walk through the gate at midnight. A man will find you on the morrow."

* * *

 

Erik, Braden and four other clansman ride into the thicket with the blacksmith following behind in a wagon. At the men's approach the feasting crows fly away from the corpses into the nearby tree limbs, glaring at the intruders interrupting their abundant meal. Braden pauses to scan the area, gaping at the surrounding bloodshed left from the battle. Gregor's mangled body is slumped over a large rock; his head lies on the ground, black blood pooling beneath it, executed in the northern tradition. Polliver's torn remains are spread over the brush, scattered by the wolves and picked at by the skinny birds of prey. "Do you see Sandor or the lass anywhere?" Braden calls out, wrinkling his nose at the fetid stench.

"No, no one here," the young man who tended Stranger and Maiden in the village calls out. "Their horses are still hobbled under the tree yonder way, and two more wander freely-must be the dead men's animals." Cautiously Sansa peeks out of the cave, "It's Braden and Erik!" she whispers to Sandor, who struggles to stay alert while gripping his sword tightly, his face pale beneath his scars. "Aye, good man; he's as good as his word. Bring them in here to me love-I cannot move just now."

Sansa rushes out to the men and soon Sandor finds they are inside, swarming around him, giving him wine mixed with myrrh for the pain, lifting him onto a makeshift cot in the wagon to take him back to the village.

Silently thanking the gods Sansa climbs in beside Erik, who carefully examines her husband's wounds. "You did well, Sansa. The wounds are clean and clotting up nicely. However he's lost a lot of blood; I know you mean to be on your way but I must get him back to our village to treat him properly."

"Of course, Erik we'll do anything you say; just please see him well again." She whispers quietly, the fear and anguish of the past day overwhelms her in an outpouring of tears. Braden rides up behind them, climbing into the back of the wagon as it slowly moves along southward. "It's alright lass; he'll make it, mark my words, " he says softly, patting the girl's back. "Your man cleansed the world of two very evil men, that's bound to count for something with the gods or they would not have seen him through."

"I'm sure you're right…it's just all been so difficult for us," she sobs into his shoulder. "I knew it would be hard but this…" her voice trails off. Erik hands her the wine. "The worst is over lass; you'd be hard pressed to ever find another as bad as Gregor. Take a drink now, girl-it won't do for you to get sick at the same time he needs you so. Lie down beside him and try to get some rest."

"Yes, I think that is wise," she says weakly, her voice hoarse from strain and fear. Sansa huddles under the furs next to Sandor, curling her body around his, resting her cheek against his bare chest. Sandor wraps his arm around her, whispering comforting words into the crown of her hair. Erik urges her to accept another sip of the drugged wine, then tucks her in next to her husband.

After settling the couple down in the wagon for the ride, Braden and Erik climb onto their horses. "You think he'll recover? The lass won't survive if he doesn't, poor child." Braden comments quietly, careful to keep his voice out of Sansa's earshot. "Aye Braden, he's as strong as a bull; he'll recover just fine," he smiles, "I worry about the girl-she cannot take much more of this being on the run and all though."

"We'll see what we can do for them once we're back home. Any ideas nephew?" Braden replies, taking a swig from his wineskin. Pausing in thought, Erik replies, "I know a gifted healer, he was once a knight and now one of the Brothers of the Seven on the Quiet Isle-they call him Elder Brother. He may offer them sanctuary there for a while, especially when he learns of the lass's commitment to the old gods and the new." Slapping his back, Braden grins. "Ha! Sandor accepting help from a holy man-that will be the day. I'd like to see that!"

"I'm sure for his beloved wife's sake he would do anything," Erik says quietly, remembering his unwavering devotion to Sansa while she was ill." Nodding, Braden slowly agrees. "Aye that he would. We'll tell Tierney as soon as we get back home. Make your letters now; I'll send these men with us at once to the Quiet Isle."

"Yes, uncle, right away." Erik grins, dismounting at once and taking out his quill, parchment and inkhorn he immediately sets to the task at hand on a nearby rock, eager to get their plans for the couple underway.


	28. The Quiet Isle

Sandor burned with fever the first week after the battle but his wounds are healing properly thanks to Erik's constant care. Sansa finally allows herself to relax somewhat as they travel; she has submitted to the healer's treatments and slept most of the way, catching up on much needed rest after her illness, exhausted from the stresses they have endured.

Since Braden and Erik found them, the days bleed together for her, a hazy blend of sleeping, eating and tending to Sandor's wounds. He has been restless as a result of his thigh burning painfully as it heals; Erik has tried his best but Sandor seems comforted most by the sound of Sansa softly singing to him. Though she believes in her dreams, she is unsure how well her husband will actually recover for he is not healing as well as before. Taking comfort in Sandor's arms she spends her waking hours in silent prayer, begging the gods for the full recovery she dreams for him.

The light of dawn peeks through the canvas lacings of the wagon, awakening Sandor. Their world for the last few weeks has been confined to inside the shelter-eating, sleeping and holding each other close, each calmed by the nearness of the other. Sandor has been surprisingly contented to remain resting in spite of the gnawing pain in his leg. For a man who has spent his life up with the sunrise he finds staying in bed much more enjoyable with his little bird down nestled beside him under the furs.

Peering at his beloved wife dreaming in his arms, he sees that the much needed rest has returned a healthful glow to her cheeks and filled out her curves, leaving Sandor more in love with her than ever. When she is sure no one will enter the wagon unexpectedly she loosens her dress, allowing their bare skin to touch in the most enticing and soothing manner. Part of him wishes they could stay this way forever and never have to face the troubles that lie outside. Warm and relaxed, it is not long before Sandor falls fast asleep once again.

Later in the morning the wagon shudders to a halt and the faint smell of burned wood rouses the couple from slumber. Rubbing her hands over his chest tenderly, she awakens her husband. "Little bird, where are we?" Sandor grumbles, pressing his lips to her forehead. "I do not know. Braden has not told me but we've been travelling non-stop most of the way." Grumbling Sandor struggles to sit up and Sansa moves to prop him up. "Why in Seven Hells hasn't he kept you informed?"

"He just wanted me to rest and not to worry. And he did keep me informed-he said they are taking us far away to a healer of the Seven that Erik knows. Maybe they want to see if we will be allowed to stay for a while first." Snorting, Sandor gives her a sideways glance. "A healer of the Seven, bugger that," he mutters, fumbling to wrap the blanket around his waist. "Braden! Braden!"

Unlacing the wagon's ties, Sandor peeks around and calls out again before Braden rides up alongside of them. "Sandor! Good-you're awake. Keep on shouting and the whole damned Quiet Isle will know you're coming." Frowning, Sandor looks out at the barren landscape surrounding them. "The Quiet Isle? Why are you taking us there? We should be going north to the wall."

Surprised, Sansa quickly looks at her husband. When did he start wanting to go to the Wall? "It is the safest spot for the both of you right now. The Riverlands are swarming with Lannister soldiers since you killed Tywin's favorite pet-he recognized the way you executed your brother as a northern tradition and takes it to mean Sansa is with you." Chuckling, Sandor brushes his hair out of his face. "Not much gets past that old lion-that's how he's lived so long. He'd damn well better know by now I don't need instruction in killing though-I did my share for Robert long before I met Sansa."

"Aye, true enough. Even as a squire you were as deadly as any viper. His evil brat of a grandson marries on the morrow to the Tyrelle girl. I mean to get you across the Saltpans while they are busy with their own affairs. Poor Margery, Sansa thinks with a shiver; noticing her reaction Sandor wraps his arms around her.

"Elder Brother has agreed to give you refuge in the sept there." Sandor interrupts with a derisive snort. "Sandor listen to me damn it-he's a skilled healer and you need his help so you will get the use of that leg back. None of their soldiers are experienced enough to cross the Saltpans alive. I know a sept is the last place you want to be but do it for your wife. Her reputation of being a devoted young woman is what gained the favor of the brothers after all."

Sansa wraps her arms around Sandor's bicep and squeezes excitedly. "Oh Sandor please just think on it now…we have been granted refuge and you will have a healer to help you get well there! It will be good for us, I just know it!" Turning to Braden, she looks up at the man, beaming with happiness. "Thank you Braden-we will never be able to repay all of your kindness! You have been too good to us."

Grinning at the excited girl, Braden cannot help but be charmed by her enthusiasm for his plan. "You're welcome lass. Freeing you from the Lannisters is thanks enough I assure you. You both just get well and get on with living." Sighing, Sandor pats Sansa's legs in assent. "Aye we'll go then Sansa; damn me if I can deny you anything, love. How will we cross to the Trident?"

"You both will have to follow us on horseback through the Saltpans-or whatever is left of it. I've got Stranger and Maiden tied to the front of the wagon. We'll have to leave it here and pick it up on the way back. I think you both should ride Stranger since he's more sure-footed and Maiden follows in his steps. Then we'll take the ferry across to the Quiet Isle." After thinking on it, Sandor agrees, though he does not care for the idea of straddling his horse and has no notion how he will make it into the saddle. "Alright then, let's get on with it. How far is it?" He keeps the treacherous terrain and sandy mud traps to himself, not wanting to worry Sansa unnecessarily.

"Maybe a day's ride in your condition." Erik rides up to them, leaning over to hand Sandor a small vial. "That's milk of the poppy. You drink it right now and it will help get you through the pain." Shaking his head, he hands it to Sansa. "Bugger that. I'll need my wits about me if we're to cross in one piece and especially if we run into any trouble. Little bird, keep that close, just in case." Sansa knowingly smiles and begins helping him put on his tunic. "Let just do this and get it over with men."

"We'll saddle up Stranger for you. Your stable man came with us on this trip thank the gods or that beast would've killed us all by now," Braden laughs loud and rough as he closes the flap. Rubbing his shoulders, Sansa kisses his cheek and says softly. "Sandor, are you sure you will not drink just a little of it? Maester Luwin would tell us that staying in terrible pain slows healing." She rises up to tie her dress closed and Sandor pulls her close, inhaling her scent and kissing in between her breasts.

"No lass, though I appreciate the buttering up," he barks low, pulling her closer still. "We need all the experience we can get to cross. Start saying your prayers; the gods tend to listen to you wife." Caressing his face, she smiles, "I already have, my love. Just imagine, we have a chance for a new life ahead-no longer on the run all the time."

"Aye, it may turn out a good thing yet. Let's not get ahead of ourselves now. This Quiet Isle needs to meet my requirements before I agree to stay. I must be sure it is safe and secure enough for you or we will leave, understand?" Snuggling closer to him, she whispers, "I know love, I would expect no less from you. You have always kept me safe."

The young Riverland stable hand leads Stranger snorting and rearing over to the wagon, placing the horse as level as possible, allowing Sandor only to lift his leg to climb on. As if knowing his master is in pain, Stranger nuzzles Sandor's hand and becomes uncharacteristically calm until both Sandor and Sansa are mounted.

The journey is slow and arduous, with Sandor gritting his teeth and downing wine for the pain. Sansa spends the time leaning forward in the saddle, trying to keep from moving and hurting him. She prays to the old gods and the new they will have safe passage and Sandor will experience as little pain as possible.

When they reach the Saltpans, Sandor gently turns her head into his chest, shielding her from the scene before them as they ride through the smoldering rubble. "Close your eyes love, you don't need to see this." The former bustling town is little more than a burned out shell of its former self, the homes abandoned and the former occupants having fled the fighting. Everywhere there are signs of battle-looted goods litter the streets along with the decaying remains of dead horses and men, women and children alike. With no one to bury them the poor souls have returned to the ground and little remains but their bones, clothing and armor-all having reached a morbid equality at the hands of the Stranger.

The Riverland men pick through the debris and inspect the corpses for anything of value but find most has already been taken by those who came before them. The burning smell chokes their breathing and Sandor feels Sansa tense up, gripping his bicep and burying her face further into his chest.

"Can we quit fucking around and get through this place?" Sandor barks menacingly. "I don't want my wife to endure all this any longer than necessary just for a few shit pieces of coin. You best believe if men like us are here gods only know who else might be lurking around this place."

"Clegane is right," Braden calls out to the others. "You men, come with us now or get left behind." Carrying the few baubles the men mount up and join the rest of the small party. "Did you see anything?" Braden leans in and asks Erik low, out of Sansa's earshot. "No nothing, only death." Sighing, Braden nods and waves the men to follow. Once they are on the outskirts of the town, Sandor halts Stranger. "Little bird you can look now, there's nothing to see out here. Cover your hair now with a scarf for me, no one need see your pretty red head," he whispers into her ear soothingly. Quickly Sansa plates her hair and wraps her scarf securely, tucking in any stray strands underneath and huddles back in his arms.

A light rain descends as they near the Trident. A lone rickety wooden ferry sits docked along the sloping banks while the old captain and another man pull heavily into their wineskins as they wait for business. The younger man takes no note but the older watches their approach wearily. "We're seeking passage to the Quiet Isle," Sandor rasps low, glaring hard at the men. "You one of those Burned Men from the Vale?" the young man asks, revealing a mouth full of rotting teeth. "No, never been into the Vale. I'm from the Seven hells and fought the Stranger himself so watch yourself. Will you take us across or not?" Chuckling, the older man nods. "Aye, you got coin? I keep telling him asking folks questions is hazardous to his health."

Grunting, Sandor reaches in his pouch and hands him a gold dragon. "For our passage-and your silence, both of you." Leaning out of the saddle, Sandor fixes his eyes on them, gripping the hilt of his sword. "You'll tell no one you saw my burned face or I'll come back and kill you and your kin and burn your damn house down, understand?" Smirking the old man nods, clearly unsettled. "I believe you would at that son. I'll take your party straight away."

"This is where we part ways," Braden says, leaning over to shake Sandor's hand. "The old gods go with the two of you now." Sandor nods and says, "Thank you for everything-one day I hope to repay you in kind."

"None of that. Just get your wife to safety and live a simple life. One day I may turn up for a visit and surprise you." Braden says, leaning over to kiss Sansa's hand. "Thank you men for everything. You saved our lives and given us so much, we can never repay your kindness. Please know that you will always have a place with us in our home and at our table, wherever that turns out to be." Erik smiles at her and kisses her hand before shaking Sandor's hand heartily. "May the old gods and the new go with you men," Sansa waves, tears glistening in her eyes.

The passage across the Trident is relatively smooth, though Stranger takes a distinct dislike to the ferry and neighs and kicks nearly the entire time in indignation despite Sansa's efforts to calm him. Sandor sits on an old wine cask, cursing under his breath at the shooting pain in his thigh. Once they reach the shore of the Quiet Isle, Sandor hands the man another dragon. "For your trouble with my horse-and remember what I said now." Sansa averts her eyes and does not speak and neither of the men have the nerve to look at her in the face. "Aye, we'll remember," the old man says, whistling at the sight of the coin.

The brothers of the Seven approach the couple as they walk ashore. "You must be the couple Erik told us about." A young septon calls, holding out his hand. Sandor eyes the men warily while balancing a piece of driftwood under his arm as a crutch. "Aye, we are the ones. Who are you?" Smiling he shakes hands with the couple amiably. "I am Septon McCann, I am Elder Brother's assistant. He is eager to meet you both but is performing a burial just now. If you would follow me we have quarters made ready for you both." Sizing up the man, Sandor is not sure if he trusts the septon or not.

"Your name is McCann, meaning the wolf cub?" Sansa asks excitedly. "Yes madam how kind of you to make the connection. My family is of the north; it is our surname." Sandor squeezes her arm to silence her. "Oh how wonderful! We are from the north as well. It is always good to see our own people. The Seven are too good to us, giving us such as sign," Sansa beams at Sandor, who only sighs and grunts in response.

Pleased, the young septon leads them to their cabin. Sansa looks around the dwelling excitedly. A river rock fireplace and a feather bed stand in one corner of the small log home; on the other side is a small woodstove for cooking and a table. A large bathtub and basin sit in the far corner and a small window overlooks the water. Though sparsely decorated the home is clean and warm and Sansa is delighted, shaking the young man's hand warmly. "Please make yourself comfortable and when Elder Brother is finished he will personally come to see you."

As he turns to leave, he hesitates, and then asks, "Might I inquire how you were wed, since you are of the north?" Confused, Sansa looks at Sandor questioningly, who is now frowning ominously. "Bugger your nonsense. I know what you're getting at-you want to know if we were married by a septon," Sandor growls. "Just say what you mean holy man." Looking to the young septon, Sansa asks, "Really…is that what it is? Why should it matter where we've taken our vows? We were married before the gods, is that not all that is required?"

"For propriety's sake some of the brothers here may be more comfortable with your living arrangements if you take your vows in front of the Seven," Brother McCann stammers out as Sandor leans down, glaring at him. "Our living arrangements? Now look here you little-" Sansa interrupts, pulling Sandor gently away. "I don't see why that would be a problem Brother McCann. We shall talk this over and speak with Elder Brother about it." Bowing, he smiles nervously and walks hurriedly back to the sept. "You must calm yourself. Forgive me for interrupting my love but I do not see why this should bother you. We already said our vows, why not say them a second time if it will ease our way here?" Gently she helps him down onto the bed and begins removing his boots.

"That's my point exactly-why even do it a second time? Bugger them and their ridiculous rituals-they just want my coin to perform the ceremony is all." Sandor mutters, slamming his hand on the small table beside the bed. "Yes, well that may be true. But we have plenty, you said so yourself. And they are putting themselves at great risk giving us sanctuary here after all-it is a small thing to ask, don't you think?" She says, massaging the muscles in his injured leg.

"Aye I suppose. I just…" he pauses, struggling for words. "I cannot stand these buggering holy men Sansa, you know why," he grumbles, somewhat pacified by her ministrations. "I understand Sandor. Maybe just try approaching Elder Brother as you would any other man instead of seeing him for just his occupation. There is much more to you than Joffrey's sworn shield, after all," she whispers, rising up to kiss him. Sandor only grunts and deepens the kiss, pulling her onto his lap. "Gods but I've wanted you woman," he whispers in her ear as he trails kisses along her jawline. "A second wedding night would suit me fine right about now."

A soft tapping comes from the door just then, interrupting the couple. Groaning, Sandor helps Sansa straighten her dress before she opens the door. "You must be Elder Brother," Sansa beams and holds her hand out to the older man. "Yes my dear I am happy to welcome you and your husband here to the Quiet Isle."

"Oh thank you. We are so very grateful for sanctuary here. Stepping inside the cabin, he closes the door and moves to shake Sandor's hand. "You are Sansa Stark, are you not? There are descriptions of you circulating all over the Riverlands my dear." Disconcerted, Sansa looks at her hands; Sandor interrupts her. "Wait little bird. Why would you ask?" Sandor glares at him threateningly, his hand on his fighting knife. "My love, please," she beseeches him. "It's alright-your husband asks an important question. I too was once a man of battle too-I served as a knight many years ago." Interrupting, Sandor begins, "I'm no bloody knight."

"Yes I can see that you are not. However if she is Sansa then you must be the Hound. Never fret, I have no intention of revealing your identities. I have offered you shelter here and I will give my life to see you are safe. It is my vow to the Seven, you have my word."

"What is the word of a septon that it should mean more than my own?" Sandor growls, sitting upright. "I said we were married before the gods but apparently my word is not enough." Sighing, Elder Brother shakes his head. "Indeed, it is worth no more than whatever value you place on it. But rest assured you may trust me; you'll come to see it in time." Glancing nervously between the two men Sansa stammers, "Forgive me Elder brother, we are not accustomed to trusting anyone but each other in King's Landing."

Shaking his head, he waves his hand dismissively. "Think nothing of it my dear. I was once a man very much like the Hound here. I asked those same questions myself when I arrived here and I would be the same for the safety of my wife. Much had happened to me and I did not understand why my loved ones should have died while I remained alive. I felt if the gods were merciful they would have let me join my love and my son in the afterlife."

"Oh I am so sorry. You were-married?" Laughing, he nods. "Well in our eyes we were, though our vows were taken in the heart not in a sept. I lost them when she bore our first and only child. I only see them in my dreams now." Sansa takes his hand. "Vows of the heart are the most important kind I've found. Many can repeat words but without the heart there is no meaning for them." Taken aback, Sandor softens his demeanor. "Will you have us marry again here in front of the Seven?" he offers, taking Sansa by surprise. "It is not necessary but if you should wish to do so I would be happy to join you again."

"Aye, we'll marry again." Sandor assents, winking at Sansa, whose mouth is agape with disbelief. "Alright then how about tomorrow-what say you? You've had a long journey and I believe I should have a look at that leg before we sup. Does that suit?"

Smiling broadly, Sansa moves next to Sandor and takes his hand, a soft look filling her eyes as she looks at him. "Yes that suits me fine. What do you think Sandor?" Grunting, he pats her hand. "Aye it suits me as well. Go on and have your look now, I'm ready to eat." Sandor slowly extends his hand to Elder Brother. Laughing heartily, Elder Brother accepts his hand and shakes it warmly. "Alright then, let's get to it and then we all can eat."

After carefully unwinding the bandages, he smells the wrapping and closely inspects Sandor's wound while Sansa holds a candle over the area. Pulling at the knitting skin, he frowns as he moves his leg in various positions to test his range of movement. When he is finished, he washes his hands. "Though the wound is not terribly deep, it did cut into your muscle. I believe it will require a lot of exercise to get it moving and strong again and quite honestly it may never be the same. We will help you with your recovery here and see you get all the help you need. I will have one of the brothers make you a cane in the meantime. You must walk around as much as possible, no more lying around all day."

"Thank you Elder brother-is there anything else we can do for him?" Sansa asks nervously. "Sandor you will need to take salt baths twice a day for the swelling, it will aid in healing as well. I will have some goldenseal tea made available for you; drink it three times a day and it will speed the healing process." Clearing his throat, Sandor tries to absorb his words. "Thank you Elder Brother," he says quietly. "I…I want to be of use here. I don't want us to just live off the sept. I can contribute something for me and my wife's food and board."

"Of course, Sandor. No need to worry over such now, we have lots of time to work the details out. Get dressed and I will meet you outside for supper, alright?" Smiling, Sansa thanks him again and closes the door. While rewrapping his bandages she says softly, "What do you think of him Sandor? Do you like him?" Chuckling, he grins wickedly at her. "Let's say for now that I don't dislike him, is that enough for you wife?" Laughing, she helps him to his feet. "Indeed it is husband-it is more than enough." Smiling happily together, the couple walk toward the shore and meet Elder Brother for supper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I know it's a little goofy that I named the young septon McCann but I had to go there! The muse needed to work in the history behind Rory McCann's surname-hit me with a wet noodle ;)


	29. Another Wedding and a New Beginning

Outside the small cabin, the sound of crickets chirping resonates through the tranquil evening air. Unwilling to disturb the holy brothers as they attempt filling Stranger's feed bucket with hay in the nearby barn, Sandor chuckles low and whispers, "Those holy men are going to need the Seven by the time Stranger is done with them."

"Shh; your raspy voice carries," Sansa whispers, giggling softly, bundling her cloak closer around her shoulders. "It's colder here, don't you think?"

"We are closer to the Vale than you are accustomed to, lass. The chill mountain air carries a far distance as you already discern," Elder brother smiles, joining them as they explore the waterfront. "Oh please don't think me ungrateful. I like it very much here; the cold breeze reminds me of home. I'm from the north, you know and having lived in King's Landing for a while, I almost forgot what the cold feels like."

"Oh yes, my dear, Winterfell is your family seat as I recall," The holy man smiles, "You have some winters up there, I'll wager." Ignoring Sandor's suspicious stare, Elder brother begins pointing out various types of birds feeding along the shore, much to Sansa's delight. Grinning at her enthusiasm, Sandor remains uncharacteristically quiet, sending an uneasy shudder through Sansa.

Stranger's neighing and snorting trumpets through the night, causing the three to change direction and walk hastily toward the barn. "This animal has quite the temper, much like his owner," Elder brother smiles. "Aye that he does," Sandor admits with a grin, walking straight into the stall and taking the feed sack from two frightened holy brothers. "I bought him from a buggering knight who whipped him mercilessly with a crop," Sandor rasps, "But not until I showed the bastard how it feels to have that damned thing used on him."

"He's a nice horse once you get to know him," Sansa offers, trying to steer Sandor away from the subject of knights. "He likes you, Little bird, because he knows I love you. Animals sense that sort of thing," Sandor replies, muttering soothing words to the destrier while rubbing his nose. Fascinated, Elder brother stares in amazement as the ferocious beast quickly calms down, nickering softly at his master while Sansa pats his flank. After Stranger is calmed and fed, Sandor covers up the warhorse with a heavy woolen blanket before the three walk resume walking toward the dining hall.

Jerking his head toward the barn, Sandor offers, "I could do that, you know, for work. I've taken care of him myself for years. Not many animals I can't handle; most like me well enough. I don't mistreat them and I'd welcome caring for and exercising the other animals for our upkeep here, if that would settle matters for us."

Elder brother reaches out to shake his hand, "An excellent notion, Sandor, though I doubt we have enough animals to keep a man as accustomed to hard work such as yourself busy. Would a bit of smithing work suit you as well?"

"No need to suit me, I'll do whatever needs to be done. Might need a bit of training, though. I haven't done much smithing for many years, not since I helped old Gariss fashion my mail and armor." Startled, Sansa turns to him. "King Robert never had the royal metal smith outfit you my love? Here you served his son from infancy and he doesn't even provide you with protection!" Her words belie her true concern; knowing his fear of fire, she fears the king had been cruel in not outfitting Sandor. He would not have wanted to be anywhere near the smith's firing pit she is certain, though she keeps her thoughts to herself.

"He would have Little bird but he knew I would turn it down. See, I prefer my own armor to the fancy getup of the Kingsguard."

"All show and no substance, am I right?" Elder brother replies, surprising Sandor. "That's the way of it. Besides Sansa a man appreciates what he builds with his own two hands and you know I'm no bloody knight and never wanted to look like one, either. I only wore the Kingsguard armor on the day of my appointment at Cersei's insistence."

"Well Sandor, your work here would be more blacksmithing for our horses and such, much smaller fires and so forth; do you think you can handle that?" Elder brother asks. "Of course, Elder brother. Just need a refresher from your current man and I'll be good to work."

"Good! I'll give you and your wife a week following the wedding for celebrating and then you begin, how does that sound?" His face twitching into a grin, Sandor nods, "Aye that suits me just fine. How about it Little bird?" Sansa eagerly smiles, "Oh yes that would be very nice, indeed. What work might I do?" Glancing at the scowl on Sandor's face, Elder brother says quietly, "A better discussion to have with your husband, I believe, Lady Sansa."

"Oh yes of course; how thoughtless of me. May we discuss it later, Sandor?"

"Aye, later on, love- in private." Patting his arm, Sansa smiles her assent. Turning to Elder brother, Sandor quickly changes the subject, "What about these thick gray mud flats? I never lived on the water before and neither has Sansa."

Sansa looks at him thoughtfully, reminded of the night he held her close, gazing out over Blackwater Bay from her window before the battle. As a prisoner of the Lannisters, she was never free to enjoy the salty air and sandy beaches beyond the walls of King's Landing. As Joffrey's sword shield, she doubts Sandor had the inclination or opportunity to spend time along the shore and the misery accompanying her memories sends an involuntary shiver through her body. As if reading her thoughts, Sandor pulls her closer to him, stroking her arm reassuringly with a small smile.

Elder brother continues the conversation by explaining the mud flats and the role of the tide in the ever changing environment of their coastal new home. Sansa finds herself excited by the prospect of the two of them discovering this new landscape together and finds the information most interesting; Sandor however remains distracted, scouting out the shoreline warily, steering the conversation toward the strategies of past raids on the Saltpans. Impressed, the holy man answers the warrior's questions thoughtfully and for once the man who always hated knights finds himself grateful to have one as knowledgeable and skilled as Elder brother nearby.

"Now before we sup, have you decided where you would like your wedding to take place tomorrow?" Elder brothers asks nonchalantly, looking out at the horizon. Sansa and Sandor exchange glances. "I thought the Faith of the Seven dictates weddings must take place after morning services in the sept," Sansa replies, anxiously keeping an eye on Sandor's reaction. "You speak truly Lady Sansa, very good of you to remember! Did you receive your training in King's Landing?"

"Oh, forgive me; this may sound scandalous but I did not receive any instruction on worshipping the Seven there, Elder brother. My mother is from the Riverlands and she provided my sister and me a septa to train us in her ancestral beliefs as we grew up. We received our instruction from father and our maester in the ways of the old gods of the forest."

"Oh, that is very good, my dear," Elder brother pauses, ignoring the derisive the smirk on Sandor's face as he turns toward the large man, noticing his burns look even more fearsome in the low light of evening. "I understand Sandor that you do not share your wife's enthusiasm for worship. Where would you like to marry?" Snorting, Sandor asks, "Does it matter? Whatever the Little bird wants is fine with me. I don't need any gods to hold me to my marriage vows; I'm capable of doing that myself."

"Yes, indeed Sandor, that is good to hear. Actually it does matter, however, for I wish you both to be pleased with the ceremony, regardless of your beliefs."

Surprised, Sandor studies Elder brother, openly scrutinizing him for signs of deceptiveness, embarrassing Sansa in the process. "I would rather marry along the shoreline in the late morning, facing the water," he pauses in thought. "Yes, I think I would like that best."

"That sounds like an excellent idea. What say you, Lady Sansa?"

"Yes…yes that would be lovely, very romantic, too," Sansa says slowly, blushing deeply at her words. "Indeed it would be, my lady, as a wedding should be. Then it is settled; tommorrow I will wed you in the morning, facing the water, just as the two of you wish," Elder brother confirms. "Shall we sup now?"

Darkness completely envelopes the Isle as the three enter the whitewashed dining hall, the cheery candles glowing inside providing the only illumination for the meal. The brothers of the sept all kindly smile and nod as Elder McCann introduces each of them to the couple before the evening prayer is said over the meal. Delighted, Sansa eagerly joins in the prayer and then serves her husband, who seems as happy as she is with simple, hearty fare offered: seafood stew, baked apples, bread and root vegetables served with watered down wine and herb tea.

Beaming contentedly, Sansa cannot remember when last a meal tasted so good to her. Sandor carefully minds his manners, staring in bewilderment as the brothers eat their meal in silence. Not wanting to disturb them, the couple takes their meal in kind, speaking directly to Elder brother only when he initiates conversation.

After dinner, Sansa hums happily, thoroughly enjoying the walk back to the cabin. The night is beautiful, the stars glittering in the sky, the bright moon reflecting on the water and the girl who once loved fairy tales finds it all very romantic, just like in one of her favorite stories. Sandor grins down at her, wrapping her close in his arms as the night chill settles in over the land.

The Quiet Isle so far lives up to its name in Sansa's view, for beyond the occasional call of a whippoorwill, nothing has interrupted the sound of the gentle splashing water against the shore outside their cabin since their arrival. Only for the few days following their wedding has she truly lived alone with Sandor and truth be told, it has been so long since Sansa lived in open country she finds the quiet a bit disconcerting. "So what do you think Sandor? Do you think we might stay awhile?" Sansa asks hopefully, swirling the healing salts left by Elder brother into the steaming tub of water.

Sighing, Sandor quickly sheds his tunic and motions for her to help him with his breeches. "Aye, love, we'll stay on for it bit. Might be a few months, maybe longer, even. Depends on whether trouble finds us here."

"Of course, my love. Does it seem…safe to you?" Sansa asks, watching his face for clues as to his genuine impression of their new home, his earlier quiet mood still concerning her. Looking up she notices Sandor grinning at her, as though he is reading her thoughts."Scared a bit, are you? It's too bloody quiet around here. No one could sneak up on us, you know, the sound would carry for miles. We got a nice warm place to rest and a heavy door with a lock."

Still, he sees Sansa apprehensively glancing around the cabin in spite of his reassurances. "Don't fret now, nothing is as dangerous as me around these parts. Not too long ago I was more than scary enough for you," he teases, poking her at his words. "If it makes you feel better I'll find us a dog as well. Help me with these breeches, will you?"

Easing his pants over his wounded thigh, Sansa then carefully unwinds the linen wrap protecting the healing skin. "Oh, the swelling has gone down some, though it is still quite full. It must have been the riding that angered it a bit."

"Quit your chirping and come join me in this bath woman; it's been too bloody long since I've had you to myself," he growls as he pulls her close, unwrapping her simple woolen gown with one hand as she giggles against his kiss. "Even with your leg wounded Sandor? I'm not so sure it's a good-" Sandor interrupts her by covering her mouth in another deep slow kiss. "Yes, Sansa, even with my leg wounded. I'd have to be damn near decapitated not to be in the mood with you around, always trying to get me out of my pants. Bathing with you holds its charms for me woman, so get over here."

"I…I've only been endeavoring to mind your injury," she whispers, blushing deep crimson at his insinuation, her embarrassment entertaining him all the more. Easing into the hot bath, Sandor then holds out is hand for her to join him. "Don't make me drag you in, now," he grunts, growling at the searing pain shooting through his thigh. After undressing Sansa settles in and begins tenderly massages his leg. "It still looks angry and swollen, my love. Is it more painful than usual?"

"Aye it hurts some, must have been the hours on horseback," Sandor grumbles, distracted by the site of his beautiful wife naked, sharing the tub with him, the feel of her soft hands stroking his thigh in rhythmic circles. "That's enough of that. You'll have me spilling my seed like a greenboy at this rate."

Laughing, she moves to lay behind him, allowing him to rest his back against her body. "Is this better?" she whispers in his good ear, massaging the soap over his chest soothingly. When she finishes, Sansa presses her cheek against his, running her hands over his chest while wrapping her legs around his waist, completely enveloping his body with her own.

"I…I cannot help but think…I could have lost you," she whispers, and Sandor feels her tears wet the burned side of his face. "I hope that will be the last of your fighting my love. I cannot bear your suffering."

"Don't give it another thought Sansa. It's over and done with and as I told you before, no one else is much of a match for me. You have nothing to fear Sansa, I'll keep you safe, just as I promised. Let it go, love."

"But you do not understand; I had such an abiding faith in my dreams I ignored the true danger, and how it would mean you risking your life. I cannot explain what came over me."

"You have a form of faith Sansa…it's different than what I've seen of the buggering faith of the Seven. I don't claim to understand everything when it comes to you Starks, but there is more than meets the eye for certain," Sandor admits, snuggling into her. "And yet here we are," she laughs, turning his face toward her and covering his jawline with delicate kisses.

As she helps him dry off, she tenderly kisses every area she touches, finally giving him all the affection and intimacy he has longed for since the fight with Gregor. "My love, I have missed you," Sansa coos against his skin, leading him to scoop her up and deposit her on the bed roughly, pain scorching through his thigh with every movement. Sansa thoroughly explores his body with her mouth, relishing the taste and feel of her husband beneath her after going so long without him.

Growling, Sandor turns her on her side, pulling her back close to his chest and curling his thighs under her, hooking one of her legs over his. Arching her back with abandon, Sansa throws her head over his shoulder when Sandor rubs his manhood against her backside, gently biting her neck before reaching around her front.

Finding her already wet for him, he massages her swollen pearl in tight circles before entering her with one deep thrust, the intense pleasure causing the couple to cry out in unison, then laughing together as they remember what happened in the village when they were noisily making love.

Having yearned for the feeling of being filled up with him, Sansa thrusts her hips against him passionately before her muscles tighten around his manhood as she shouts out her release. Shaking, Sandor is overcome with passion as he desperately struggles to restrain himself, her body gripping him so tightly he fears she will squeeze his release from him as she peaks. While she rides out her own release, Sandor gives into his body, thrusting hard and fast until he spills his seed deep inside of her, a long groan escaping his lips as he does so.

Pulling her close to him, Sandor murmurs words of love to his beloved wife as he caresses her silky skin, eager to prolong the beautiful intimacy they have shared. Resting his head on her belly, Sandor tenderly strokes her midsection, a curious mixture of fear and love welling inside his heart. "I could have lost you, too, Little bird. I'll not forget that." Running her hands through his hair, she sighs contentedly, "I guess it may be better for us not to dwell on what might have happened; let us focus on our wedding tomorrow my love." With that the couple finally relaxed, allowing sleep to overtake them at last.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When dawn breaks over the coastline, Sansa excitedly jumps out of bed and begins getting ready for the ceremony. After bathing once more she sits down to brush her hair when Sandor comes up behind her and gently takes the brush from her hands, "Here, let me do that, Little bird. I watched your maids do it enough times."

Beaming at him, he has never made it a secret that he loves her hair ever since guarding her in King's Landing and so she agrees and allows his ministrations, pleased that something so mundane can make her fearsome husband happy. With surprising gentleness, the former Hound brushes her hair to a lustrous sheen, carefully working through the knots until finally satisfied. "You did a beautiful job my love, better than any maid I ever had; I should have requested you to style my hair in King's Landing."

Growling his harsh laugh, Sandor grins wickedly, "I've had plenty of practice, Little bird, from brushing out Stranger's mane." Laughing happily, she swats him before stepping into the royal purple gown, turning her back for Sandor to lace the back. Fumbling nervously, he finishes lacing up her dress after several long minutes of cursing on his part and laughter on the part of his wife.

Staring at herself in the mirror, Sansa cannot shake the feeing something is missing and so she adds a cream and lavender shawl richly embroidered with small flowers and green leaves, a special gift from Shae all the way from the Summer Isles. After all she did for the pair, the sentimental young woman feels it proper to honor her friend by wearing it on her second wedded day.

Turning to face her husband, Sansa watches Sandor's normally keen eyes soften as he looks her over, smiling and nodding approvingly. "More beautiful than ever," he grins, taking her by the arm and kissing her hand. "Seven help me; I'm in trouble if you get any prettier."

Inside the sept, Sandor silent agrees to sit through the worship as a gift to his wife on their wedding day. When the services are over, Elder brother leads them to the waterfront just as the sun raises high over the mouth of the Trident. Making the sign of the Seven over the pair, Elder brother indicates for the couple to kneel and then begins the wedding ceremony. Gazing at his beloved wife, Sandor is overcome with emotion at seeing the love shining in her eyes for him, and him alone. It is more good than he ever expected in life, to have her love and devotion and he is still taken aback that the gods have gifted him with her.

Sandor is deeply grateful and silently gives thanks before repeating his vows. "Sansa, before the old gods and the new I pledge myself to you. Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am hers and she is mine, from this day, till the end of my days. With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife," he rasps low, taking her hand and kissing her wedded ring before leaning in to claim her lips.

"Sandor, before the old gods and the new I pledge myself to you. Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am his and he is mine, from this day until the end of my days. With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband," she whispers, placing a kiss on his marriage favor before tucking it directly over is heart inside his tunic, then covering his mouth in a tender kiss.

Elder Brother's face is full of smiles when the couple turns to him once more. "In the name of the Seven I pronounce you husband and wife. May the Seven bless you and keep you and yours all the days of your lives. Arise, family Clegane." Tears of joy fall from Sansa's eyes, thrilled to finally have the religious ceremony she knows her mother wants for her and Sandor too finds himself choked with emotion, barely managing a low 'thank you' before Elder brother walks away. Chuckling to himself as he leaves giving the newly married couple privacy, a knowing smile spreads across the holy man's kind, round face as he walks back to the septry, remembering the happy day he made his own vows to his departed wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Since the faith of the Seven has distinct similarities to Catholicism, I took the liberty with the marriage ceremony of the Seven should take place in the morning, based on the Sacrament of Matrimony description: 
> 
> "A ceremony that consists, of at least three biblical readings, the exchange of vows, the exchange of rings, the Prayer of the Faithful, the nuptial blessing, prayers and appropriate music. The Sacrament usually takes place during a Nuptial Mass in the morning or early afternoon."
> 
> If any of my readers is Catholic and would like to provide more information on the wedding customs, I'm more than happy to learn about the traditions of your faith :)


	30. A Death and A Honeymoon

"You wanted to speak with me?" Bronn winces as he closes the door of Tyrion's solar. He had been out drinking the night before and the bright sunlight streaming through the beveled windows burns into his weary head. "Do sit down."

"Don't mind if I do." Bronn replies, reaching for a breakfast roll and settling back in to an overstuffed velvet chair. "What's all this?" he asks, gesturing to the letters in front of Tyrion, all bearing Bronn's name and the Lannisters seal. "I have some good news for you, Bronn. Your keep has been made ready for you and Lady Lollys; you may leave on the morrow. I have already sent my personal servants to pack your things." Tyrion replies, never raising his eyes from the ornate book lying open on the large desk before him.

"Whoa, now wait just a minute! What's the rush?" Bronn eyes Tyrion suspiciously; the castle has been in frenzy with Joffrey and Margaery' wedding preparations and Tyrion's haste in their removal has aroused his curiosity. "I'm not even sure if it is safe for Lollys to travel and besides, she wishes to attend the wedding."

Scoffing, Tyrion finally raises his eyes to Bronn. "Does she? Then I would gladly send her in my stead. I was just preparing this wedding present for my beloved nephew." Turing the book toward Bronn, he watches as the grizzled man carefully fingers the intricate embossing on the cover. "It is a copy of Grand Maester Kaeth's Lives of Four Kings, one of only four copies in existence written by Kaeth himself."

"I only know the basics of my letters but it looks like a fine book, indeed. I never saw the boy read much, though."

"Precisely my point, Bronn. This is a book every king should read. Stannis is not the only threat to my nephew's reign. The Targaryen princess won't stay away from King's Landing forever and I hear she is practicing her rulership skills while her dragons grow larger every day. I thought I might at least give the lad an opportunity to educate himself, if not for himself then at least for the sake of the kingdom."

"Worth a try, though I doubt any schooling can prepare one for dragons."

Tyrion does not reply, only scoffs again bitterly. "You and your wife must travel on the morrow. The wedding is three days away and I would see you well on your way before then. I will have Maester Pycelle examine Lollys if you wish, to assure the safety of the unborn child. This afternoon my sister is conferring upon you the lordship of Stokeworth. Try and act surprised when they come for you."

"Come again? Speak plainly, man, I've been up drinking with Vanya all night." Bronn growls low, pouring him a glass of wine. "You will be Lord Protector of Stokeworth as a reward for your loyalty, as well as to ensure the crown's interests are protected. Do you understand?"

"Aye. Why is the queen so eager to be rid of us? Upset her little plan to get rid of me failed, is she? She should have never sent Ser Balman to do the job of an assassin," Bronn chuckles darkly.

"She merely wants to get you out of my service and away from here, especially before the child is born. You understand how this looks for her; first she fails to protect Lollys and then Lady Sansa; she cannot afford for word to get around that she cannot keep her "guests", especially when Jaime is still held by the Starks. It was my suggestion that you go before the wedding, since there is no protection for House Stokeworth's seat."

"So that's it, then. Something's going to happen at the wedding, and you're going to allow it." Bronn whispers, leaning in close to Tyrion.

Clearing his throat, Tyrion announces stiffly, "I am giving you Shae as a parting gift-for your wife, you understand. I know how attached Lollys is to her and she will have a chance for a better life, one I'm afraid I will no longer be able to be a part of."

Alarmed, Bronn watches Tyrion closely; he knows old Tywin has been trying to get Shae into his bed, but there seems to be something more driving Tyrion's actions. Bronn reaches out and shakes Tyrion's hand. "You ain't planning on doing yourself a harm, are you?"

"Good gods, man-no! I told you once before, I like living." Leaning in close to Bronn, Tyrion whispers, "Lady Sansa kept our secret, the dear girl, and a Lannister always pays his debts. Now do as I say, quickly, there's a good man."

"Have you at least said goodbye to Shae? Told her how you feel?"

"Not that it is any of your business, but yes, we have said our goodbyes."

"She agreed to go with us? She's right fond of Lollys but still…"

"Yes, she agreed," Tyrion replies curtly. "She may have a great deal to share with you as well. You may ask her to explain it once you are away from here."

Nodding severely, Bronn lets out a sigh of relief. "Good on you, then. I'll collect our things and leave as soon as our things are packed up in a wagon."

"Good man. I'll send your belongings to Stokeworth after you, escorted by two of my soldiers. Now off with you, I have much to plan for." Tyrion waves his hand dismissively. "What, not even a handshake?" Bronn laughs, grabbing Tyrion in a rough embrace, patting him soundly on the back. "You're an insolent, black hearted rogue and I'm going to miss you, friend." Tyrion responds, slapping Bronn on the back in response.

"Things get too rough around here, stop over by our place, you here?" Bronn grins, winking at Tyrion before closing the door.

Bronn spends the rest of the morning making preparations and planning their route. Next comes the saying of goodbyes with his wife, the giving of such banal courtesies is a chore Bronn will gladly leave behind, one of many things he despises about life in the Red Keep. Cersei summons them by midday for the ceremony naming him as Lord Protector of Stokeworth. The formal occasion turns out to be a private affair, with only him, Lollys, Lady Tanda, Tyrion, Margaery and Cersei, along with a smattering of Lannister lackeys, most notably Lord Baelish in attendance.

King Joffrey never even bothered to show up, his page sending word the king preferred attending his final fitting for his wedding clothes, much to Cersei's irritation, Tyrion and Bronn's relief and poor Lollys' disappointment.

After the naming ceremony, Lord Baelish offers his congratulations, holding on to Bronn's handshake a moment longer than necessary. "I understand you were the one in charge of finding the Hound, Lord Bronn."

"Aye, that's true enough," Bronn replies, instantly on guard. Turning his attention to Lollys, Bronn grins at her and squeezes her hand. "Is there any lady here that rivals my Lollys, Lord Baelish? My Sweet, you grow prettier every day." Blushing, Lollys giggles shyly. "Oh, thank you husband, that is so kind. Shae picked out this gown for me."

Stretching his mouth into a tight grin, Lord Baelish nods. "Your maid has good taste my dear. You look lovely."

"Sweet, why don't you go and see Lady Tanda? Lord Baelish looks like he would like a word in private," Bronn winks at her, kissing her hand. After leading her over to the old lady, Bronn growls in Baelish's ear. "Get to the point man, and say what you mean."

"What I mean, Lord Bronn, is that I find it most interesting that you should find no trace of the Hound or Lady Sansa and now suddenly you find yourself Lord Protector of Stokeworth. That is quite a leap for a sellsword, wouldn't you say?"

"I wouldn't know, I'm only a sellsword, as you say." Bronn grins through gritted teeth, glancing over at Tyrion. Catching Bronn's look, Tyrion promptly walks over, "Am I interrupting, Lord Baelish? I certainly hope so," he laughs, handing both men a glass of wine from a nearby steward. "Lord Baelish here was just telling me he thinks it's too much of a stretch for me to be Lord Protector of Stokeworth. And though I'm only a sellsword, I believe he's implying it's because I am somehow being rewarded for my failure to find Lady Sansa and the Hound."

"Lord Baelish, I hardly know what to think. You attended Lady Sansa's memorial yourself, even spoke a few words on the poor girl's behalf. You saw her gown retrieved from the moat; I believe your grief has weakened you. Or perhaps it is an untreated affliction peculiar to your choice of companions that has addled your mind."

Snorting, Bronn replies, "That must be it. Seen it many times myself over the years, though I've never personally suffered."

"Should I send Maester Pycelle to you, Lord Baelish? I do hope your mental distress will not negatively affect your position as master of coin." Infuriated, Lord Baelish hisses, "I will find out what the two of you are about, mark my words. Lady Sansa was very special to me. Lady Catelyn is family, do you understand? I will continue my search in spite of this charade."

"You and Catelyn Stark are like family, you say? Interesting, indeed. When you say family, do you mean family like Cersei and I, or more like Cersei and Jaime? Pray, tell us." Lord Baelish hurries away from them, sputtering in fury while Bronn and Tyrion burst into laughter, their loud display drawing the attention of those nearby. Tyrion leans in and whispers to Bronn. "He's obsessed with Catelyn Stark, has been for years, and since Sansa has been with us, Cersei and I both have noticed his preoccupation has carried over to her, poor child. I doubt this is the end of it. Careful, my friend."

"Aye, I will, and you too, friend. Remember, our home is always open to you."

After the ceremony, Bronn, Lollys and Shae immediately leave King's Landing by wagon with the promised Lannister escorts. During the trip the two women hold each other in silence with heavy hearts, while the former sellsword rides along whistling, a tremendous feeling of relief sweeping over him as he leads the way toward their new home.

Four days after their arrival, a contingency of Lannister soldiers appear at Stokeworth with a message that stuns the household: King Joffrey has been murdered at the hands of his uncle Tyrion, who is now a wanted man. After the soldiers search the residence and surrounding property, Bronn promises the men he will inform them if Tyrion should try to contact him, barely able to contain the wicked grin creeping onto his face as he closes the door.

* * *

 

The week after their wedding passes by quickly-too quickly, in Sandor's view. The couple devotes their honeymoon to exploring the Isle, laughing and talking about their future family. Unaccustomed as they are to relaxing, Sandor and Sansa leisurely explore their new-found freedom, relishing in the peace they found and learning a different way to live now that they are no longer under constant threat of discovery.

Sandor and Sansa spent the day meandering along the muddy shoreline with Stranger in tow, deep in conversation, ending up in a secluded craggy inlet of the coastline. Stripping down, Sandor decided to go for a swim, something he has not done since he was in Lannisport as a young man. Coaxing Sansa in the water with him was no small feat, for she never learned to swim and strongly resisted his efforts. "Then I'll swim for the both of us. You hold on to my neck, Little bird, you don't weigh more than a feather anyway. First, though, you'll need to take off that heavy gown or we'll sink. You trust me?"

"But what if the brothers see us?" Sansa whispered scandalously, launching Sandor into fits of laughter. "What if they do? They're lucky men to be spying on beauties such as us." Wrinkling her nose, it wasn't long before Sansa joined in his merriment, and after a bit more cajoling she finally removed her clothing, holding on tight as Sandor swam laps around the inlet. Laughing and splashing in the soothing warm salt water in only their smallclothes, the pair spent the afternoon basking in the sun and the pleasure of each other's company, laughing when they realized neither could remember the last time they played at anything.

When the red early evening dusk settled in the sky, they wrapped up in blankets and mounted Stranger, slowly making their way back to the cabin, sleepy, contented and happier than either could remember being in a long time. Once inside, they bundled up in furs, sitting in front of the roaring fire while dining on cheese, bread and fruit left over from their picnic, appreciating the simple pleasures of life on the Quiet Isle. Later, they made love in a languid manner, laughing, playing and whispering, so very different from their solemn lovemaking of previous times.

Once sated, the couple dozes while still curled securely in each other's arms. Forcing away the fear his love will be taken from him, Sandor gazes at his beloved wife, silently thanking the gods for the happiest day he has ever known. Marveling at his good fortune, he watches Sansa peacefully dreaming while nestled in his arms. Now we're joined by two ceremonies, he chuckles, quietly wondering if the gods view them as somehow more committed than others as he drifts off to sleep.

Awakened by the distant howl of a lone wolf a few hours later, Sandor arises and watches the waning moon over the water, wondering briefly where the Little bird's pack is at present. After lighting the fireplace and the candles on the driftwood mantle, Sandor settles back down into the small bed, drawing Sansa back into his arms once more, carefully arranging the thick red fox furs over them. Instinctively she snuggles closer to his chest, and in her upturned face he sees utter relaxation, a sight he has seen precious few times since they escaped King's Landing.

Sandor can hardly believe his wife ever agreed to leave with him that fateful night. Drunk, reeking of blood and wildfire, with bloodlust from battle still in his eyes, the Hound weakly offered to take the scared Little bird with him, his final chance at redemption for the horrible deeds he carried out in service to the Lannisters. Looming over her like a beast after the slaughter, he remembers the terror in her eyes and i that moment it certainly seemed Stannis would be a safer option for her even from his perspective. If not for Shae's help, he is certain she would have stayed in her room, and their lives would have taken very different paths, and he shudders involuntarily at the thought of what might have happened to her.

Even in his drunken haze, he knew Sansa needed Sandor Clegane, not the Hound, and the scarred man was determined to learn to put the fearsome persona of the Hound away with the woman. Determined she would agree to leave with him, Sandor let down his guard, opening his heart for the first time in his life and once Sansa saw she had nothing to fear from him and recognized his vulnerability, she chose to put her faith in him. In fact it was the first time anyone had ever put their faith in him as far as he could remember, and Sandor deems this moment as the beginning of the end of the Hound.

After their wedding, it was the thrill of his life for his beloved wife to give herself to him, body and soul. Little did she know she was also his first, too, in many ways: the first woman to look him in the face and smile, his first and only love, the first woman to give herself to him willingly, unreservedly and out of love.

It was the first time he attached deep emotion with the physical act; in truth, loving her is as close to a spiritual experience as Sandor has ever known. Even now, each time they are intimate strengthens his commitment to his beloved Little bird, who twice now has promised share his bed, his name and his life forever before the old gods and the new.

Admittedly, transforming his personality from the Hound into a worthy husband for Sansa has been difficult at best, his most epic failure being his reaction to the young woman in the Riverland camp. In the past, the Hound killed his fair share of women in service to King Robert and the Lannisters, one of many sources of shame for the scarred man. Though he never raped or beat the prostitutes he visited, like most men with whom he associated, Sandor had been taught to view ladies and camp followers differently.

Listening to the bold young woman threaten to tell Sansa he was aroused by her, the Hound returned with a vengeance, roused by the perceived threat to his wife and their future. In one moment he reverted to his old ways, which sickened him to the core.

When he told Sansa what happened, she said very little but the disappointment and distress in her eyes said more than words, hurting him deeper than if she had slapped him.

When he saw the girl's battered face the following day, he knew he would apologize, swearing to himself he would never raise a hand to another woman again unless physically attacked. The Little bird was pleased he came to his own decision, but hearing her say his behavior caused her to fear he might strike her one day was a horrible revelation for him and in that moment he saw from her standpoint just how much she stood to lose, how much damage he would inflict on her if he did not learn to control himself.

Watching Elder brother, a former knight himself, peacefully at work in the septry, he cannot help but wonder if the holy man ever struggled in a similar way to change for his woman. Elder brother carries an air of serenity Sandor has longed for his entire life, although he harbors serious doubts such is even possible for him. Still, he is not inclined to trust anyone in the clergy of the Seven, especially considering it was the fucking septons themselves that anointed his demon of a brother.

Thoughts of speaking with the holy man have persisted throughout their honeymoon, surprising the man, and despite his past hatred for the clergy, Sandor resolves he will approach him in the near future. The fear of losing Sansa has haunted him since they said their vows in the Riverlands. Where once he feared her family would steal her away from him, now he fears it will be by his own behavior that one day she will be lost to him. The knowledge his actions may cause her suffering pains him more than anything, and Sandor is determined to become the man she needs and a good husband besides, even if it means accepting council from Elder brother.

Tossing back the covers, Sansa moans in her sleep, interrupting his thoughts. She has been dreaming of her father again for the last few nights, repeatedly calling for him in her sleep and awakening Sandor. When he asks what her dreams are about, all she will say is the future, and regretfully he understands she still fears sharing the spiritual side of her life with him.

Sandor tentatively runs his fingers over her creamy skin, admiring his wife's luscious curves and his touch soon rouses her from sleep. "My love, what is wrong? Are you unable to sleep?" Grinning wickedly, he replies, "Not with such a beauty as you in my arms. Come here, woman."

Smiling at him, she draws his face down to hers, kissing him tenderly. "Tell me what you're thinking about, husband." Stroking her cheek with the back of his hand, he rasps low, "I'm thinking how lucky I am to have you. How one day when we're safe, we'll have our pups." Allowing his hands to travel down her body, he caresses the dip in her waist and over the curve of her hip lightly before quietly asking, "I would still have us wait, Sansa. It's not safe for you, for us."

Laughing, she raises up on one elbow, running her fingers through his long hair. "Are you asking me if I am with child at present?" Shrugging, Sandor looks away. "Well, you look the same, it's not like your stomach is sticking out or anything. I just don't remember if…"

"You don't remember what?" Sandor's mixture of blunt observation and apprehensiveness touches her heart but still she has a mind to tease him. She knows her husband fears getting her with child and has ever since the first time they made love and his desire to protect her and their future endears him to Sansa all the more. "My love, please, you must not fret. My moonblood came while we were travelling here. You were in and out of consciousness from the milk of the poppy, which is why you don't remember it."

Smiling, she moves to sit facing him on his lap, tenderly rubbing her hands over his shoulders. "Were the men…good to you? Did you have everything you needed?"

"Oh, yes my love. It proved a bit challenging during travel but I was well taken care of, I assure you."

"Did you…suffer with it?" Sandor asks sheepishly, afraid that somehow losing her maidenhead might have made things worse for her. "No more than usual. Sandor, you need not look so uncomfortable," she grins, lifting his chin so he will look at her. "I was not raised to discuss personal things even with my husband, which is why I did not mention it. But those are the silly teachings of childhood. I don't think it should be kept hidden from you, as if it were somehow dirty. I will tell you from now on, dearest, if that will put your mind at ease."

Sandor gently runs his hands over her belly and the expanse of her hips as he speaks. "Sansa, you don't need to tell me anything you don't want to. Damn it, it's just…I want our family, I do, but when it's safe for you and…"

"I know my love; I know, and I love you for it," Sansa whispers, placing her finger over his lips and then kissing him soundly. "Rest assured, you would be the first person I would tell if I believed I was with child. Now, won't you lie back down with me and try to sleep?"

"Aye, in a moment, when I'm done admiring you," he rasps in her ear, running his hands over her soft body, drinking in the site of her astride his lap, the flickering light of the candles illuminating her porcelain skin. "You are very beautiful, wife. I enjoy looking at you." Blushing prettily, Sansa giggles at his words. "I enjoy looking at you too, husband."

"You like looking at the ugly dog you married? I can smell a liar, you know." Inexplicably Sandor can feel the anger rising inside of him, hardly daring to believe her words. What the fuck is wrong with you, Dog? What man in his right mind would feel angry at having this beautiful woman fawn over him?

Sansa hears the teasing as well as shame and insecurity behind his words. "Then you know I am telling the truth," she whispers, softly caressing his jawline. "I have always loved your dark hair and your strong profile. You have the look of the north." Snorting in disbelief, Sandor nevertheless stares into her eyes, interested in what she will say next. "You're so powerful and muscular; you have the body of a true warrior, and are most pleasurable to look upon," Sansa whispers, running her fingers through the hair on his chest and stomach, her feather light touch sending shivers through Sandor's body.

"I hope our children will have your eyes; they remind me of the pool in the godswood…like the sea after a storm." Sansa, seeing his self-doubt, persists in her reassurances by nuzzling his neck and whispering against his skin, "And your beard, my husband, I've always loved it. In King's Landing I used to wonder what it would feel like to kiss you, how your skin would feel against mine."

"Really?" he snorts, "I would have thought you preferred the pretty golden boys over the scarred dog." Stubbornly, Sandor resists believing her, his heart nevertheless delighting at her sweet words. Her eyes are full of love and desire for him, filling his heart with a rush of emotion that overwhelms him. Looking away, he remains silent, gently massaging her hips and thighs in a rhythmic motion while she continues. "You are not a dog, you are very much a man," she whispers, shyly running her hands over the chiseled muscles of his chest, resting them lightly on his sculpted stomach. "My man. You are beautiful and your scars will never change that."

Brushing the hair away from the scarred side of his face, she cups his cheek and kisses him tenderly. "Do not hide your face from me, my love. I love looking at you, Sandor. I know it is hard for you to accept but I will not allow you to dismiss my feelings."

"You're blind, Little bird, if you like looking at this mess of a face. Enough with the chirping," he growls at her, his face twitching into a small smile. Sansa laughs as he pulls her closer to him, lifting her under her thighs until their bodies are pressed completely flush together . Kissing him once more, Sansa rests her cheek against his chest. "I must teach you how to accept a compliment, my love." Barking out a laugh, he says, "Dogs don't chirp, Sansa, no matter how hard you might try to train them. And in case you haven't noticed, no one else is lining up to pay me compliments."

Raising her face up to his, Sandor quietly says, "Tell me about your dreams Sansa. I know you dream of your father; you've been calling out to him in your sleep. Does he talk to you?" Averting her eyes, Sansa shrugs, "Sandor, why do you persist with this? You do not keep to the gods and only recently have you even conceded the possibility of their existence. I accept your feelings but I don't want you to-"

Covering her lips with his finger, Sandor answers low, "It was wrong of me to mock your beliefs Little bird, no matter what I think of the gods. I want to understand, for your sake and the sake of our family."

"If you must know…yes, my father does speak to me. He tells me to be cautious and remember winter is coming."

"And what else does he say?"

"He…he tells me to stay with you and to trust you, and that the time will come when we should go north together. When I ask him how I will know when to go, he says to listen to my heart, and that you, too, will know when the time comes, and that we must not be separated. We must go together, that we are our own pack now."

Closing his eyes, Sandor thinks back to his dream about Jon, and the words the young man spoke to him. "Why do you think he tells you not to leave me? Is that…something you think about? Tell me truly," Sandor asks hoarsely, his fears gripping his throat as the words leave his mouth.

"No, no my love, I would never! I swear it on the old gods and the new, and on our marriage! Please you must believe me!" Sansa clings to him, and feels a deep sigh of relief escape his chest at her reassurance and so she caresses his back and tenderly kisses him before continuing. "I…I believe Father repeats those words because he and my mother separated in King's Landing when things became difficult, when it seemed there was no other choice, and it ended with disastrous results. It reminds me of when I dreamed of Gregor. Father told me that you and I are stronger together, which is why I would not leave you as you fought him."

"Aye, that was true enough, for I fought harder than ever before, knowing defeating Gregor would keep you safe," Sandor rasps low, running his hands through her hair. "What is it you want, love? Tell me. We don't have to stay here if you'd rather go to the Young Wolf. I'll take you anywhere you want to go-anytime you're ready, you say the word, Little bird."

"Sandor," Sansa whispers, holding his face in her hands. "I only want us to be together. I want to be useful and help you provide for us while we're here. One day, I look forward to starting our family. And yes, of course I wish to be reunited with the rest of my family too, when the time comes, but I fear that will be a ways off yet. My brother is a king and should we go to him now he and Mother undoubtedly will want to…use me to gain advantage in the war." Sansa says quietly, unable to control the tears welling in her eyes, knowing where once she was a member of the Stark family, now as a woman flowered, should she return to them she would be reduced to a pawn for the war.

Frowning, Sandor soothingly runs his large hands down her bare back. "You're mine Little bird. No one will ever use you for anything ever again, I swear it. I didn't take you away from King's Landing to have your mother and brother put you in a different kind of cage."

"It's odd that Father never instructs me to go where they are-why do you suppose that is? They cannot be far from here. Riverrun, I would imagine."

Shrugging, Sandor pauses a moment before answering, "As I recall Ned always let the little she wolf be herself, giving her that small sword and dancing lessons with that Braavosi swordsman. Maybe he wants the same for you. Things will change soon enough, Sansa, perhaps he wants you to enjoy your freedom before winter sets in."

A small smile spreads across her face, "Oh Sandor, yes that sounds just like him! That must be it!" Sansa laughs, hugging him close to her excitedly. "I know things are about to change and not for the better, I fear; Joffrey will marry Margaery, and Stannis is no doubt only biding his time. Then there's the Targaryen princess…"

"Your father told you about her? Robert wanted her dead, you know, once Varys found her. Your father would not agree to have her killed."

"Tyrion told Shae about her; Father never mentioned her. Varys' spies told him she is very beautiful, with silver hair and purple eyes."

"Aye, like all the crazy, inbred Targaryens." Sandor grunts, remembering Rhaegar.

"Daenerys is her name and Shae said she is not much older than me. She has three dragons, too. After what Jaime did, Daenerys will be coming to King's Landing one day, too, of that I'm certain."

"And what do you think she will do with you and your family, Little bird? You are the daughter of the man who helped Robert win the rebellion married to a former Lannister dog. What do you think she'll do to me, after the way my brother killed her kin? She will get her vengeance, believe that. If your brother had any sense he would stop this fighting with Joffrey and Tywin and go to make an alliance with her."

"Should that day come, I will not hide from her." Sansa says, her voice strong, and Sandor once again sees the wolf in her. "I will not make her seek me out, either. I will go to her first, and tell her that you and I are no more responsible for what our family members have done than she is." Pausing, Sansa struggles for words. "Shae told me she was forced to marry a fierce Dothraki chieftan, and they fell in love and had a great passionate affair. He died unexpectedly while Daenerys was with child; she was broken hearted, and her baby died, too. I will tell her I know what it is to find great love in an unexpected way, to love someone so much you would rather die than carry on without them. Blood of the dragon or no, she has a woman's heart, she will understand."

Sansa cradles his face in her hands. "The fact that you killed Gregor will account for something, Sandor, if she indeed is in her right mind, as Tyrion says she is." Sandor is not so sure, but he keeps his thoughts to himself, waiting for her next words.

Shaking her head, Sansa's deep blue eyes stare into his with conviction. "I swear that no matter what lies ahead, I will never allow myself to be separated from you. She will never take you from me, for all her dragons. If she must exact vengeance she must do it to the both of us, together."

"It will not come to that, I swear Little Bird. No matter what comes in the future, I will not allow us to be separated, nor will I ever ask you to leave me ever again. It would take more than her bloody dragons to take you from me." Sandor replies, kissing her soundly. "You are mine, Sansa, I won't allow anyone or anything to take you from me. You belong to me, forever, and I will never give you up."

For a moment neither of them speaks, and Sandor seems lost in caressing her thighs, his thumbs moving ever closer to her center. Tilting her chin so she will meet his gaze, he rasps low, "I don't bloody well understand exactly what you Starks are made of but by the Seven I'll not question your dreams again, not after what we've been through. You must not hold back from telling me about them, promise me."

Sansa slowly nods distractedly, her eyes glazed with desire, every nerve in her body focused on Sandor's touch. "We'll follow them, just as we did with Gregor," Sandor whispers in her hair, and Sansa feels his manhood harden beneath her as she begins trailing kisses along his jaw and down his neck. "I will, my love, I promise," Sansa answers breathlessly, before gripping his shoulders tightly and slowly wrapping her legs around his waist.

"By the gods, Sansa, I'll do whatever it takes to see them through, see you happy and safe," he answers hoarsely, breathing heavily with passion, feeling her arousal soaking him as she rocks her hips against him.

"I love you Sandor, you are everything to me. I promise I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe, too. We are meant to be together my love, nothing can change that." she whispers, tenderly pulling him back onto the bed once again.


	31. Haunted

At dawn Sansa awakens to see Sandor, who is already up and dressed, sitting on the bed watching her in amusement. "Time to get to work, Little bird." Groaning, she gingerly stretches before getting up and going to the washbasin. Unaccustomed as she is to exertion, even the lightest of tasks Elder brother has entrusted to her over the past week left her body aching miserably by the time they return for the evening meal. Though she has not complained, Sansa is pretty sure Sandor knows this, for every night he has drawn a hot bath and massaged her aching shoulders without her having to ask him.

Steady streams of people have passed through the Quiet Isle, mostly peasants looking for a place of refuge from the war and the occasional sellsword searching for bounty. Though Elder brother has reassured them that something out of the ordinary must be going on and that seeing so many strangers is rare on the Isle, the situation has put Sandor on edge. So far he has refused to allow Sansa out of his sight, feeling it necessary to keep her by his side even inside the septry. After some deliberation between Sansa and Elder brother, he finally agreed she could work alongside Brother McCann on the condition that she stay close to the forge. Sansa happily agreed to this arrangement and has enjoyed sharing in the planting of the fall crop of winter vegetables.

Under the guise of needing to exercise his leg, Sandor leaves the cabin after supper each evening and Sansa suspects there is more to his disappearance than mounting anxiety over the newcomers. For the last week Sandor has been exceptionally tense each day, his attitude degrading into blatant hostility by nightfall, much to Sansa's dismay. He has offered the barest of civility to the brothers and Elder brother alike in their daily interactions. Noticing the change in the Hound, the holy man mentioned his demeanor to Sansa the day before as she worked in the small field next to the forge. Hastily Sansa apologized on her husband's behalf and assured the long-suffering septon she would speak to him, hoping the brothers would not lose their patience and ask them to leave. Elder brother smiled knowingly and said, "It will not come to that my dear, of that I am certain. I'm sure Sandor will confide in you in good time. Sometimes a man needs to work things out before he can speak of it to others and we will let him do it in his own time."

For the past week Sandor furiously routes the water's edge in the black of night with only the light from their cottage to illuminate the way and returning after Sansa is sound asleep. Last night she awakened to find him clinging to her, cold and shivering against her breast, his hair smelling of salt and the sea. When she asked him if he was alright he awkwardly attempted to pull her shift over her head, growling, "I mean to take you wife. Get out of these damn clothes."

Giggling at his abrupt ways, she obligingly finished undressing for him. The force of his passion for her had taken her by surprise. Roughly hauling her on to his lap, his kisses were unusually forceful, his lips crushing against her own as his fingers dug into her sides, seemingly desperate to hold on to her. Recognizing his behavior as similar to their first wedding night, Sansa matched his passion kiss for kiss, touch for touch, whispering words of love and reassurance throughout the encounter.

Something in Sandor gave way as their lovemaking carried on and she felt the shift in his mood as though it were a tangible thing: his caresses turned gentle, his lips tender against her body, his movements becoming fluid instead of frenetic as he moved inside of her. After they reached completion he rested his head against her belly, silent and brooding, his unspoken anxiety filling the space between them. Running her fingers through his hair, Sansa softly began singing Florian and Jonquil, the song he alternately once mocked and claimed one day he would have from her. Feeling the wetness of his tears falling on her skin, she soothingly stroked his chest as she finished the song and Sandor allowed it, remaining silent all the while holding her close.

A peaceable silence stretched between them as she snuggled against him, feeling the tension leave his body while her fingers gently moved delicately over his chiseled body. When she heard Sandor sigh contentedly, Sansa saw her opportunity and tentatively asked if working among the fires had been difficult for him. Quickly rebuffed with a derisive snort, Sandor turned away from her and blew out the bedside candle much to her chagrin, decisively ending a promising conversation before it even began.

From the dressing mirror Sansa can see him patting his foot on the bench, impatiently waiting for her to help him tie back his hair for work. Undaunted by his taciturn behavior, she decides to broach the subject again while she tends him, having learned he relaxes when she brushes his hair. Running the brush methodically through his long black hair, she murmurs in his ear, "My love, please tell me if working in the forge is bothering you. I have been most concerned for you this past week, as is Elder brother."

"So, you been talking with that holy man about your ill-tempered dog of a husband, Little bird? What about keeping family matters private-or was that only for the Stark side of the family?" Sandor grunts, scowling at her as he takes the hair brush from her hand. "Sandor, please, don't be angry with me for worrying about you. You know full well I would not talk about you behind your back to anyone. The Elder brother is concerned by your behavior as well and he merely offered his help. Will you not at least consider telling your wife what it is troubling you? I only wish to help you and do whatever I can to ease your unhappiness."

Staring into his eyes, Sansa silently wills him to see her love and concern for him; steadily he meets her gaze and Sansa is heartbroken to glimpse the same fearful, broken expression she saw the night they left King's Landing. Her eyes filling with tears, she tenderly raises her hand to stroke the burned side of his face and instantly Sandor abruptly grabs her by the arm. Suddenly realizing what he has done, he softens his grip and draws her wrist to his lips, swallowing hard before softly kissing her. "Forgive me," he whispers hoarsely against her skin before resting her hand against his cheek.

Truth be told, working in the hot environment of the forge with an ever-present open flame has been incredibly challenging and just the idea of going to work has set him on edge. As the days pass the fear gripping him has become progressively worse. Sandor is at a loss, having no idea how to put a stop the surge of panic he feels when the smell of molten metal reaches his nose.

When he accepted Elder brother's offer to work in the forge he never anticipated being afraid of the fire. When as a younger man he was accepted into King Robert's service, he helped forge his own armor and did not experience such feelings; though looking back, the elderly smith did most of the forging while he did the hammering and finishing work. The entire situation has deeply unnerved the man, though he is loath to discuss it with anyone.

Sansa slowly rests her other hand against his heart and nods knowingly, "Your heart is pounding my love. I see you are having difficulty allowing me to touch you also." Sighing, she takes his hand in her own and kisses him tenderly. "I've experienced something similar, Sandor, after watching my father die and Joffrey had the knights beat me." Sighing shakily, she pauses. "The last straw was the riots. Afterward I would get this panicky feeling out of the blue and start shaking uncontrollably. It still happens but not as often as in King's Landing."

Grunting Sandor nods, remembering her in her room after the riots and how she trembled under his touch. But you are a lovely, gentle young woman, it is natural you would have such a reaction; but certainly not for a grown man who has killed since he was twelve years old, he thinks while waiting for her next words."Maester Pycelle said it's a type of sickness some people get it after a terrible trauma, such as having men attack you and seeing your father executed by your fiancé. I am wondering if maybe being horribly burned by an older brother would cause a similar affliction."

At her words Sandor jerks his head to meet her gaze. "I don't know maestering Sansa but I wouldn't trust that old fool…I've seen him do many shady things for the Lannisters over the years. How do you think Cersei kept that she was fucking Jaime a secret?"

Sansa had never given it much thought, nor did she want to think about it. "Oh that is just disgusting, I try not to think about it, actually," Sansa shakes her head and tilts his chin up as he has done to her so many times. "But Sandor, please my love, let's not talk about them now…you are all that concerns me. Would you at least consider speaking to Elder brother about it?"

Scoffing and swearing under his breath, Sandor abruptly walks over to the window, looking out over the water silently for several moments. Though he hates to admit it, the smell of the burning wood and coals in the forge has unexpectedly evoked the same sickening fear he felt when Tyrion unleashed the wildfire and worse still, his horrific experience with his brother. Sandor is both annoyed that Gregor still haunts him even in death and exhausted by his constant fear. He cannot deny he has fought a terrible lifelong struggle within him that has taken its toll in more ways than one, and he fears he will eventually lose the battle one day.

In the past he managed to drown his fears in sour Dornish red and when his blood was up, he would take any whore in Baelish's establishment that flinched at the sight of him. He remembers gripping one particularly pretty wench's chin between his fingers and laughing as he drunkenly took her, watching her try to turn her eyes away from his scarred face and yet still play the part of enjoying herself. Part of him hoped if she could get past her fear of him to do her job, then maybe he find it in himself to do the same. Shuddering, he wipes his brow at the sordid memory, surprised to find his head and arms drenched in a cold sweat.

Fear was the real reason he went to the brothel before the battle, knowing he would need drink and a woman to get through the horror of the wildfire that lay before him. In the end he could not get Sansa out of his mind and scared or not, he only had time for one glass of wine before the bells tolled. By the time Stannis' ships came into view, his anxiety had him is a such a vice-like grip that he even flinched when a torch passed in front of him.

With no wine to settle his frayed nerves, Sandor has tried walking to calm himself. The last few nights even being indoors with a fire in the hearth has set his teeth on edge and so he hurries out to the refuge of the chilly beach, trying to escape his fears by walking as fast as his injured leg will carry him. Once Sansa went to bed, he knew the fire would soon die out and it is only then he allows himself to return to the cabin.

Last night he felt such an intense panic that he woke her up out of a sound sleep to take her. He meant to give into his body and take her hard and fast as he so often wanted but once he was cradled between her thighs, her soft skin pressed against his and her fragrant hair falling all around him he found he could not bring himself to do it. Just the feeling of his innocent and beautiful little bird in his arms soothed his soul and he gently made love to her instead, thanking the gods for giving him the love of such a perfect and caring woman.

You have to do something Dog. You cannot leave her alone every night to escape the fire, and you sure as seven hells can't keep making excuses for your odd behavior. He knows she too has suffered in many ways but how can he possibly make his little bird understand the torment just being near the forge has unleashed within him? How could he make such an innocent, caring young woman understand what it means to be burned and what is more, to bear the shame of the demeaning ways he dealt with such misery in the past?

Looking into her deep blue eyes, Sandor knows he would never burden her with his dark memories and twisted thoughts. He will simply tell her he will talk to Elder brother. Turning back toward Sansa, he sits on the bed and motions for her to sit on his lap; eagerly Sansa takes her place on his knee and wraps her arms around his neck, patiently awaiting his reply. Clearing his throat, he struggles to find the right words, his face twitching vehemently as he begins to speak. "Alright Sansa, after I finish the work he assigned me to do I'll talk to him. I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me but I can't go on like this, believe that. Maybe he'll give me a different job."

"Sandor, I'm sure he will once you explain your situation to him. He is a healer, after all. Maybe he knows of some teas that will allow you to relax instead of…wine." Sandor looks sharply towards her and cannot help but grin at her for figuring that part out about him. "I know you used to drink heavily in King's Landing because…well, you were sad."

Sandor snorts but she ignores him. "Please, tell me why you leave me every evening…is it…is it the fireplace?" Sansa whispers the last word, tenderly stroking his face and looking at him in such a way that makes Sandor want to kick himself. Sighing he nods, his face violently twitching as he turns to avoid her gaze. "Oh my love, do not worry about that. We can heat bricks out of doors like we did in the village and set them in the hearth if that would help."

"Aye, maybe it would at that. Just for a bit, anyway. Can we just go now, Sansa? Bloody hells, we're late as it is," he barks roughly, setting her on her feet with a twitching grin. "Yes, of course husband. I am so hungry-I hope there is plenty of breakfast this morning!" Sansa smiles at him, gripping his arm and steering him out of doors.

Before they are very far from the cabin, Sandor scoops her up in his arms and covers her lips in a long slow kiss that takes Sansa's breath away. Laughing, Sansa returns his kiss with a tender, gentler kiss and says, "I love you Sandor. Don't fret; we'll see you through this." Nodding tersely, he loops her arm back through his before rasping quietly, "I love you, too, Little bird."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Hound certainly is an imposing figure, Elder Brother muses, looking on while Sandor forcefully hammers out the glowing molten blade of an old sword, apparently oblivious to his presence. With his long black hair pulled away from his face, the twisted scarred appearance of the man is more alarming than ever. Elder brother observes that Sandor looks even more intimidating than usual, the light material of his undertunic clinging to his heavily muscled body as he fiercely labors bending the steel blade to his liking against the anvil. Awed by Sandor's a powerful and somewhat angry hammer strokes, Elder brother ponders the nature of the dark thoughts that are discernibly eating at the man.

He is clearly working out his frustrations but what could be the cause? Sandor Clegane seems very much in love with his wife; it certainly is not any unhappiness with her. In fact, Sansa is the only person Elder brother has seen yet that is not intimidated by the man, and on many occasions he has marveled at the young woman seemingly oblivious to his threatening manner, taking hold of his arm and laughing as though he was the most charming of knights instead of the fearsome, lethal Hound, a man whose very name inspires fear across the Riverlands.

The young lady sees beyond mere appearances and into his heart, bless the lass. Still the man is clearly troubled; I must see if there is a way I may assist him. The Hound's behavior has perplexed Elder brother since his arrival on the Quiet Isle. Stalking around the sept and dining hall, Sandor's courtesy and attention appears reserved solely for his wife and the holy man notices even basic civilities are an effort for him. For years he heard rumors of Sandor Clegane and his fearsome prowess in battle and looking upon the man at work now, Elder brother is inclined to think the descriptions were no mere exaggerations.

"How do you like working in the forge, Sandor?" Elder Brother shouts above the singing steel. Grunting, Sandor shrugs, placing the newly reformed metal blade in a nearby tub of water to cool, the water hissing in response. "Any work suits me fine," he mutters finally, noticing Elder brother patiently awaiting his reply.

Sansa earlier in the morning had confided in him, telling of Sandor's admission about his fear working around fire as well as his nightly walks and worsening demeanor, veritably begged him to help her beloved husband. Marveling at the changes the delicate young woman brings out in the battle hardened man, Elder brother smiled and promised he would not wait for Sandor to approach him, despite of the Hound's dangerous air and gruff demeanor. "Are you pleased with your wife's assignment? I know as a highborn lady it may be a difficult adjustment for her."

At hearing Sansa's name, Sandor momentarily interrupts his work to watch her enthusiastically digging in the garden. Smiling, Sandor sighs deeply, for the very sight of her brings calmness over him and reminds him why he ever agreed to do this work in the first place. His Little bird is obviously enjoying planting vegetables with Brother McCann in the nearby garden. Looking up at him, she proudly smiles and blows him a kiss while waving happily, and Sandor's face twitches into a small smile and returns her gesture. Forgetting Elder brother, Sandor continues to watch her, thinking his little wife has never looked more beautiful than she does now with her hair in disarray, her face smudged and her pretty hands covered in mud.

Clearing his throat, Elder brother tries once more to engage Sandor in conversation, "Your young bride seems to have a knack for gardening work. I hope you agree this will be a good fit for her in spite of her upbringing."

"If I didn't she wouldn't be doing it, believe that. I want her close to me, that's enough and Sansa seems happy with it," Sandor rasps a bit more harshly than he intends, annoyed to have his pleasant thoughts about his Little bird interrupted. "Where do you get all these old weapons anyway?"

"They are the remnants of battle, just a mere drop in the bucket of what is scattered all over the countryside. We brothers have taken it upon ourselves to collect the discarded weapons, clean them up and fix them and then wait for three moons to see if anyone returns for them. If not, we sell them or turn them into tools for usage here." Smirking, Sandor nods. "If that Targaryen princess comes calling, I hope you have a few swords to spare at least for your own protection."

"We do not fear her dragons, Sandor. If she should come "calling" as you say the Seven will guide us in the proper course to follow." Pausing Elder brother regards Sandor. "I hear her dragons breathe fire, a most terrifying notion."

"Well they wouldn't be bloody dragons if they didn't," Sandor answers sarcastically, hoping to hide his fear of fire before him. The holy man cannot be fooled however, watching as the scarred side of Sandor's face twitches alarmingly at the mere mention of the fire-breathing beasts. "Sandor I have watched your work and I must say, you have excellent potential for smithing. However, your scars tell me this may not be the best work suited to you; would you agree?"

"Yes, I admit I'm not fond of the fire, if that's what you're getting at."

"I thought not. You seem most agitated, even now with me here. Does this happen often to you?"

"Only when I'm around fire. Seems to be getting worse, too. Sansa thinks it's some type of sickness or some such nonsense she heard about from the maester in King's Landing. Who knows with that man, though."

"Aye, I am familiar with the very sickness of which she speaks, Sandor. Regrettably it is most common among men who have served in battle. I went through it after several years at war during Robert's rebellion, it is most distressing too."

"So you have had it too?" Sandor asks, curiously approaching the holy man. Elder brother can see the change in his demeanor, he is now much less aggressive and more open to conversation. That's better, the septon thinks to himself. "Well it has gone away for the most part. A healer from one of the mountain clans of the Vale taught me to make a tea that calms the fear. Come, I will show you how to make it for yourself." Elder brother gestures for Sandor to follow him to the garden.

Smiling, Sansa looks down at her work, pretending not to watch Elder brother as he walks Sandor through the fields, gathering the necessary herbs and roots for the special medicinal tea he told her about earlier. "See if you can get him to agree to drink it three times a day Lady Sansa and before bedtime, too," he instructed her. Just having someone to share her worries with greatly alleviated her mind and she is pleased to see Elder brother is managing to break through her husband's barriers.

"This, Sandor, is a passion flower. See the spiky purple petals? Steep the flowers in hot water as a tea and it will relieve anxiety. I'll show your wife how to make it too." Walking a ways further into the garden, Elder brother bends down and pulls a handful of bright green vegetation. "Over here are wild lettuce leaves. Now these are only to be used at bedtime as they will make you very sleepy."

"Wine always makes me sleepy," Sandor mutters under his breath, feeling ridiculous holding a handful of flowers and greenery. "You speak truly. But with this you will wake up refreshed in the morning and not hung over. You boil the leaves and steep this too. It doesn't taste good but it helps you sleep sound and through the night. Only at night, now, remember that." Elder brother says deliberately, giving him a handful of the curly vivid green-leaved plants.

"Also you need lots of good, wholesome food. Considering your precarious position I doubt either of you have had very many decent meals over the past few moons. Your young wife looks sallow and pale as well, no offense to your young lady."

"She came down very ill with a fever a moon's turn ago. Ague I believe it was. She still is not fully recovered."

Elder brother nods slowly. "Sandor, these conditions come on when our bodies are not nourished well enough and then when we drink wine to cover up the symptoms, we end up becoming all the more depleted."

Elder brother smiles broadly and waves Sansa over to join the two men. "Lady Sansa, these are the medicines your husband needs. Do you read lass?"

"Oh yes, Elder brother."

"Here then," he replies, handing her a small roll of paper with handwriting on it. "Follow these directions and he'll feel much better in a fortnight. If you have any questions you know where to find me," the holy man smiles genially. "You two go back to the cabin and rest up for dinner. I'll join you later." He waves, moving back to the garden. "Thank you Elder brother," Sansa calls, smiling and waving and Sandor waves brusquely too. "Thank you for your help," he rasps low.

"Tis nothing lad. Go lie down and rest now on orders of your healer. I brook no refusals, understand?" Elder brother waves back with a grin. "Come my love, I'll make you the purple flower tea-what is it called again?"

"Passion flower," Sandor grunts, a grin twitching on his face. "Yes, I'll fix it for you and then we can lie down before supper."

Carefully following Elder brother's directions, Sansa prepares the tea. Wrinkling his nose, Sandor curses and complains until she adds a little honey. Once he is satisfied, he drinks it down and then climbs into bed, beckoning her to join him.

Later as the afternoon sun dips low in the sky, the couple awakens to the thundering of hooves approaching the septry. The couple leaps from bed, Sansa nervously watching out the window as Sandor grimly straps his short sword to his side along with his long fighting knife to his leg. Blowing out the candle, Sandor pulls her close to him and ducking low he peeks out the window. "I see six Lannister and Baratheon soldiers. What the bloody hells are they doing here?" Sandor swears low.

"I have no idea. Didn't Joffrey wed Margaery a fortnight ago? The Seven only knows what might be going on. I think we should just stay put, Sandor. Elder brother says we are under the protection of the Seven here. The gods will look after us," Sansa says, her shaky hands betraying the cool confidence in her voice. "The gods seem to listen to you woman so now's the time to start praying," Sandor rasps low, pushing the dresser in front of the door. A light scratching comes from the door and the couple sees a small piece of paper pushed under the doorframe. Sandor cautiously leans down, picks it up and hands it to Sansa and then quickly draws his swords.

"It was Brother McCann, Sandor," she whispers, watching the tall dark haired septon duck back around the side of the septry as the soldiers dismount. "He says…oh my!" Sansa gasps, clutching her hand to her throat. "What?! What it is?! Out with it woman."

"Sandor, he says Joffrey was murdered at his wedding reception! Can you believe it? The whole kingdom is in an uproar. The soldiers are looking for Tyrion…they suspect he is responsible!"

"Well fuck me sideways, the Imp finally did something worthwhile after all," Sandor chuckles low, his harsh laugh echoing through the silence. "About bloody time. No reason he'd come here, though." Pausing in thought, Sandor silently weighs this information carefully while Sansa continues watching the soldiers through a small opening in the curtains. "Aye, lass, I think you're right. We'll stay hidden here for a bit and wait for Elder brother to come for us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The herbal tea Elder brother gives Sandor for PTSD is based on a remedy my great uncle was given by a Lakota medicine man after World War 2 to treat what was then known as "battle fatigue". Though he gained relief from his symptoms the use of such herbs is not recommended without the direction of a skilled healer. Please understand I am not recommending this as a treatment for anyone today, merely relating the experience of my uncle.


	32. New Identities

While the sun dips beneath the waterline over the bay, the couple lay huddled together in the inky blackness of the chilly cabin, waiting and watching. Laughing and talking from the dining hall echoes through the evening stillness, the noise serving to keep the couple apprised of the soldier's whereabouts. "Do you think the Baratheon soldiers will search the whole Isle?" Sansa whispers, trembling at the mere thought of them.

"We must remain silent lest some Baratheon soldier lurk in the shadows unseen," he whispers cradling his wife close to his chest and soothingly stroking her hair. "I know love, I know," he whispers into the crown of her hair, running his hands over her, trying to quell her shaking. "After this is over, we'll both have some of that shit-tasting tea."

Smiling, Sansa buries her face into his chest, willing herself to stay calm, the fear of discovery nearly overwhelming her. "Those men are no match for me. I killed Gregor, didn't I? No one will hurt you Sansa, I swear it." Sansa feels the rumbling of his words in his chest, and the feeling of his warm breath on her skin reassures her. Tilting up her chin to make her meet his gaze, he whispers, "You believe me, little bird?" Nodding, she raises a hand to his cheek. "Of course."

"Say it. Say you believe me."

"I believe you, Sandor."

"That's better," he whispers into her crown, kissing her head before nuzzling into her hair.

Several hours pass without any sign of anyone. Bewildered, Sandor mulls over the meaning of it. The husband in him hopes they left for Sansa's sake while his battle training tells him the soldiers would lay low and eventually scout the residences behind the sept. "Sansa, get some sleep love. I'll keep watch," he murmurs in her ear. Shaking her head, Sansa whispers, "No, I will stay awake with you."

"Suit yourself," he comments, pulling the furs off the bed and wrapping them around her quivering form. Twisting his head, Sandor raises his finger to his lips and rises to his feet while soundlessly drawing both swords. A few moments later a soft tapping comes from the door. Scowling, Sandor ducks under the curtain, his terse expression turning into a grin as he peeks through the slats. "It is Elder brother." Scrambling to her feet, Sansa lets out a deep breath and quickly unlatches the door after Sandor moves the dresser to the side.

Elder brother quickly darts inside, latching the door behind him. "They have come in search of Tyrion Lannister. It seems he killed his nephew on his wedded day during the feast." Sansa eagerly nods. "Yes, Brother McCann slipped us a note saying as much. He warned us not to come to dinner because of the soldiers."

"I'm glad to hear it, though I knew with Sandor's training, their noisy arrival would not take him by surprise. They do not know your real identities. I told them a couple recovering from ague resides here and that ague is very contagious. So far none of them are interesting in testing the truth of my word but I am not sure how long that will last. We must think of a plan." Pausing a moment in thought, he offers, "If you slip out the back, you might disappear into the surrounding wood."

"Might be, but then if they wondered where the sick couple is, you would have to explain our disappearance. No, I think it's best to hide in plain sight. If any get too curious, well, they may end up short a few soldiers-no disrespect holy man."

"What?!" Sansa cries out, remembering at the last minute to lower her voice. "You want to stay here with them? But your scars, Sandor and with my red-"

"Sansa, listen to me now, this will work. Trust me, love. I trained dozens like them in King's Landing; I know how they work and I'll be two steps ahead of them, don't you fret."

"But what if they recognize me, even with a scarf over my hair?"

"These men are too low-ranking to have seen you more than once or twice and besides they are trained to avert their eyes when members of the court walk past."

"Well, that's true, but still," Sansa whispers, worrying her lip and wringing her hands.

"It's unlikely any of these men have ever seen you up close and certainly not with your hair down and dressed in simple clothing. They would have only seen you as you appeared in court and at that, only from a distance. We'll cover your hair and say we're from the north. I'll call you Sarah."

Hearing Sandor offer his sister's name for her deeply touches Sansa. At once a deep peace comes over her and instinctively she fingers the dragon glass band on her wedded finger that once belonged to her new namesake. Quickly Sansa utters a small prayer, asking her goodsister in the afterlife to protect them.

Elder brother pulls out a long brown woolen robe and matching cowl. "I thought you might suggest such, since when I was a knight that would have been my choice as well. You may wear these Sandor and none of the soldiers will be the wiser as to your identity. From now on your new assignment will be burying the dead in the graveyard far away from the sept. I will only refer to you as the Gravedigger and to Sansa as Lady Sarah. Tomorrow you both will go about your new duties as though nothing is amiss, agreed?"

Swallowing hard, Sansa only nods while Sandor grunts in agreement. "I put enough people in the grave in my lifetime. I guess it's only fitting I bury some of them. Besides, it beats being in that gods-forsaken forge." Sighing, Elder brother pats his shoulder reassuringly. "You aren't the only man here to have done that very thing, Sandor. You and I share a common past, lad, and one day I may tell you my story. For now, though, we must get through this crisis."

"Did…did they say how long they would be here?" Sansa asks, her voice quivering. "I hope it won't be too long."

"No, my lady, they only said they will stay until they finish searching the Isle. I really don't know what they hope to do, since Tyrion Lannister has no known connections in the area and certainly no place to hide."

"A Lannister always pays his debts," Sansa whispers without thinking. "She means that he would pay handsomely for protection and with the war raging there are few folks in a position to turn that kind of coin away, no matter who offers it." Sandor explains. "For the kind of reward he would offer, almost anyone but you holy men would keep him tucked away, murderer or not."

"If half of what I hear about his nephew is true, then Lord Tyrion is the one who deserves a reward. Indeed, I believe killing the king is an act of mercy for the residents of the Seven Kingdoms," Elder brother comments darkly, watching Sansa fidget anxiously out of the corner of his eye. "Truer words never spoken, holy man. I am sorry I didn't do it myself, that."

"Well, let us thank the Seven you didn't have to do it. The gods rid the world of him and for that we are grateful." Sansa nods, "Yes, I am especially grateful. No one deserves…him."

Elder brother pats her gently. "It should take them no more than a week or two if they are diligent in their search. There is no wine or…ahem, camp followers here to hold them any longer than necessary. I'm sure they are already itching to leave this place."

Sighing, Sansa forces a weak smile. "Then we shall do our best to stay out of the way until then. Perhaps we should take our meals away from the brothers during their stay. If anyone asks I will say I am still recovering and do not wish to put anyone at risk. It is not exactly a lie and they will be none the wiser. What say you Elder brother?" Sansa asks, nervously wringing her hands, the devout young woman unhappy with the idea she may need to tell a half-truth in a holy place.

"An excellent notion, since I was about to suggest that very thing before the soldiers arrived anyway." Elder brother replies with a smile. Sandor grins broadly when the holy brother turns and winks at him when a relieved Sansa happily turns away to gather her shawl around her shoulders. "Alright Cleganes, I must be going now-my absence will be noted before long. I will see you both in the morning. Should the soldiers come before then, I will post Brother McCann in front of your cabin to ward them off." Opening the door, he reaches around the corner and produces a basket full of food. "Here is your supper. May the Seven bless and keep you both," Elder brothers says solemnly, making the sign of the Seven over them both before turning to leave.

After Elder brother departs, the couple eats in silence, savoring the simple meal provided. Sansa drinks a cup of the tea Elder brother left for Sandor. When she pours a cup for him, he flatly refuses, stating he must stay alert in case the soldiers arrive. Fatigued by the stresses of the day, they decide to go to bed early. Sandor stays by the front door wearing his light mail with swords at the ready while Sansa snuggles under the furs on their bed before quickly drifting off to sleep.

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The next morning, Sansa anxiously rises at dawn, allowing Sandor to sleep a few minutes longer while she bathes and dresses for the day. Plating her hair in the style her Mother taught her from the Riverlands, Sansa parts her hair and coils the long braids at the nape of her neck before tying on a colorful scarf.

In the mirror she sees Sandor is up already, dressed in his brown robes, watching her and grinning all the while. "You were so intent on that complicated up do you didn't even notice I got up," he smirks. "You look like a pretty meek little septa in that scarf, wife. Come here, let me see if I can change your mind about upholding your vow of piety," he growls, pulling her into his arms and taking full advantage of the new hairstyle by showering kisses on the exposed bare skin of her neck.

"You! Oh, you are such a man sometimes! Aren't you the least bit nervous about seeing the soldiers today?" She laughingly scolds, batting away his hands playfully as he pulls her down on his lap. "No. I'll kill those buggering sons of bitches first chance I get, believe that. They're the ones that should be nervous. The Hound is on the hunt and they don't even know it," he laughs wickedly, patting his short sword and fighting knife strapped to his legs, conveniently concealed by the rough woolen robe.

Hearing him speak in such a way sends a chill through Sansa's body. She had hoped that he would put away this part of his personality now that they were in a holy place. "But you've done so well putting away the Hound! Sandor, I hate to see you go back to that… identity if you don't need to…"

"And what makes you think I won't need to 'be the Hound' as you say, in this gods forsaken world?" Sandor smirks, bitterness tingeing his words, his tone making Sansa's heart sink. "Small chance of that."

She knows he is right but still Sansa cannot help but wish that the end of Gregor signaled the end of the Hound as well. "Well, because Gregor is dead. Please, let's give Elder brother's way a try first. Promise me you won't…."

"What? That I won't kill?! No, damn it, I'll promise no such thing. I'll do whatever I need to keep you safe. I'll give the old man's plan a chance but you'll not hold me to any such promise not to act, nor should you ask that of me, understand?"

Sansa nods meekly, abashed by his words. Since he left the service of the Lannisters in King's Landing she had never seen him kill anyone that did not threaten them. "You are right. I won't hold you to anything like it. I know you only act when we are threatened and not a moment before…I just cannot bear for you to get in another fight so soon after…"

"…After Gregor?" Sandor barks out a harsh snarl of a laugh, setting her on her feet as he stands up. "Sansa, all of those soldiers together are easier to kill than Gregor on his worst day. There's plenty of men that need killing besides him and if they threaten us I won't hesitate," Sandor grips her chin firmly, forcing her to look him in the face, "I won't feel sorry about it, either. I won't give it one damn minute of thought. Look at me." Sadly she raises her eyes to him, and Sansa can feel his hot breath against her cheek, his face mere inches from hers. "The world is full of killers, remember that. You married a killer. Might be less of one now but a killer just the same. You won't change that, for all your pretty ways with me."

Sansa remembers when last he said those words to her, in her room, drunk and afraid. After seeing him in that state her only fear is that once he slips into the Hound that one day he will not be able to leave it behind. Sansa's eyes fill with such sadness at his words that Sandor immediately regrets his blunt speech. He meant his words, however, and he leaves her to think on it while he lays out their meal on the table. Sansa frowns, wringing her hands. "Now stop fretting and sit down. I'm ready to eat."

"Did…did you mean it when you said my sons would be killers someday? Our sons would be killers?" Sansa asks solemnly, and Sandor recognizes she is both angry and hurt by the tone in her voice. "Do you think that is the destiny of our children-to kill or be killed?" She can hardly bear the thought but in her heart it is her deepest worry. She thinks of her brothers and Arya and wonders if her father ever faced a similar fear as they were brought as she waits for his reply.

Sighing, he rises from the table and clears his throat, "Sansa, come here," he rasps low, sitting her on his lap. "I know you don't want to hear this, but yes, I do. It is the way of the world that the strong survive. I hope as much as you do that it won't come to that with our pups. But part of being their father means I damn well better make certain they grow up prepared for the world we live in, not the world as we wish it was-do you understand?"

"Yes, yes I do," Sansa says after giving his words some thought. "It was the same with my Father, I see that now. I wished he had prepared me a bit better though. Girls need their father's advice too, you know."

"Aye, that they do, love. If we have a daughter she'll probably take after your hellion of a little sister." He chuckles and gently strokes her cheek with the back of his hand, earning him a smile from his wife. "Can you imagine a child with both you and Arya's temperamental ways?! The Seven save us, Sandor!" He throws back his head and laughs hard at the very thought and Sansa joins him, her eyes twinkling, her fear dissipating at the mention of their future family. "Was your sister like Arya?"

"No, no she was a proper lady, just like you. Kind and sweet, always willing to give people the benefit of the doubt." Sandor's voice trails off, momentarily lost in his memories. "Forgive my harsh ways, Sansa but I meant what I said. I'll train our children to protect themselves, boy or girl." Sandor quietly says, fidgeting with his fighting knife and averting his eyes. "You will be a most excellent father, Sandor. I know you will do right by our children. I love you," she whispers against his mouth, giving him a long kiss before feeding him a bite of muffin. "And I you, lass."

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Elder brother spends the morning with Sansa in the farthest reaches of the fields, planting summer squash, pumpkins and leeks well out of the sight of the soldiers. In the ever-expanding graveyard across the landscape, Sandor allows Brother McCann to educate him on the requirements for a grave fitting the faith of the Seven. Sweating and exerting himself, he curses the hot robe and cowl under his breath as he works. Quickly he digs a fresh row, only to find that for each he finishes, there is a row of newly built coffins waiting to occupy them.

Some of the dead have names carved into their simple wooden caskets while others only have a few words describing them: Young woman with child, flowered scarf. Old man dressed in gray woolen pants. After some time Sandor no longer reads the carving, no longer curious to know anything about the steady stream of bodies awaiting a final resting place.

It could easily be me. Might be anyone, really, he grunts to himself, not wanting to dwell on the carnage that led to this occupation. After laying to rest the body of a young woman, Sandor stares after the casket a moment before pushing away the thought that it could just as easily have been Sansa only two moons ago, burning up with fever in that dingy Riverland cabin. It didn't happen, no use thinking on it now.

It pains Sandor to know he can protect her from most things but death is not one of them. The Baratheon soldiers stop by to watch him work from time to time and by their quiet Sandor realizes they are under the assumption he has taken a vow of silence like most of the other brothers. Focusing on the task at hand he remains silent in hopes the men will become bored and move on and he is grateful that so far that is what happens throughout the day.

Glancing across the fields, he hears Sansa softly singing hymns with Elder brother as they work, so he instead focuses on the sound of her sweet voice carrying across the countryside. Losing himself in her singing, he pretends this is their land he is working, that Sansa is singing to their pups while he toils away the hours. It is a sweet reverie indeed to the scarred man who before his beloved wife never allowed himself to dream, instead choosing to drink himself to the point of passing out as a means of escape.

By the noon meal, he has sweated through the robe several times over and Sandor itches to be rid of it. Elder brother brings Sansa over to him, all flushed pink from her time in the sun. "I'll need some buttermilk for these freckles," she laughs merrily when he tweaks her nose. "My septa would faint if she could see my skin."

"Lady Sansa, your skin is lovely, made more so by fresh air and hard work. It suits you, if I am allowed to say as much," Elder brother smiles at Sandor, who nods in response. Sandor spots three Baratheon men standing in front of the sept suddenly turn to look at Sansa. Carefully he draws his arm through hers and starts leading her away but sees that it is too late; the men hurry to cut them off on the pathway.


	33. A Close Call

Sansa begins to tremble and casts a fleeting look at Sandor, who casually reaches for his short sword underneath his robes. "You're alright little bird," he rasps low to her, anger glittering in his eyes, his knuckles gripping the hilt firmly.

Bringing his left hand up to the small of her back, he casually steers her toward the cabin, away from the approaching group of soldiers. "No place to get away. They'll be on us soon, wife, just act calmly." Smiling tautly, Sansa looks into his eyes and the calm she sees in his face at once soothes her frayed nerves. "I will, love, I promise."

The captain of the guard, distinguishable to Sandor by his elaborate armor, calls out to them. "You there, stop! We have yet to see you people here, come forward at once." Sandor eyes the man warily, trying to decide if he has met the man before in training.

Satisfied he has not, Sandor gently maneuvers Sansa to face the men. "What business takes you away in such a hurry?" The captain barks at them. Stiffening, Sansa glances at Sandor once more and nods slightly.

Elder brother steps forward, physically placing himself in between the soldiers and the couple."Ser, this is the couple that suffered the ague infection. It is best for you not to come too close, as the woman nearly succumbed to her illness. She may yet be contagious even though some time has passed. I recommend you proceed with caution; you men can ill afford an epidemic among your ranks while on such important royal business."

"If she's so sick how is she able to work with you?" One of the other men calls out glaring at Sansa in such a way Sandor's throat tightens with rage. "You men, hold your tongues. My first officer asks a good question, holy man. How is it she is working?"

Sansa smiles winningly at the captain and pats Elder brother on the back. "Milord, many pardons. Small folk as us don't mean any disrespect and all this fuss is for naught. I just got well as of late and I'm weak as a kitten. Elder brother here says a bit o'fresh air is good for getting back your strength so I insisted on helping him today. You can call me Sarah, and this is my husband." Coughing, Sandor ill suppresses a laugh at his wife's attempt at peasant talk.

Squinting at her, the captain looks over Sandor, taking in his imposing size and threatening demeanor. "Is this man your husband? He has the look of a fighting man."

"Yes milord. We're only wed two moons and a fighter he once was, but he's changing, slow but sure with the brother's help." Sansa smiles again, patting Sandor's forearm. Sandor clears his throat once more, struggling to suppress his laughter.

"Why does he not speak? Is he mute?"

"I can speak, the name's Edric," Sandor growls low, suddenly angered by the man's insolent tone.

"He had an accident that makes his voice raspy-like so he don't say too much. The brothers here have been so good to us, treating our ills. He's also trying to honor the way here by being quiet to show respect and all. We're learnin' some about the gods as well and do what little we can to earn our keep."

"What is your profession here?"

"Gravedigger and sometime blacksmith," Sandor grunts, pulling Sansa nearer as the captain steps forward, eyeing Sansa closely. The man stares at her unabashedly, taking in her obvious beauty and simple clothing before commenting, "A lovely girl, lovely indeed. You're not quite smallfolk but not highborn either, are you Sarah? Where are the two of you from originally?"

"North, milord. In fact I was born not far from the great castle of Winterfell. Make no mistake, we are smallfolk and wouldn't want you to think we're reaching above our place. It's on account of the way I talk you think other," Sansa grins proudly. "My mama was from the Riverlands and lived in a great house there, one that served House Tully. She took pains to teach me how to speak properly-well, most times I do. I've been away from her a while so I forget once in a while."

"That's quite all right, young lady," the captain nods to her, grinning at his first officer, who is openly staring at her with all his might. "She did well by you. You are most charming, my dear. A simple blacksmith and gravedigger is most fortunate to have you."

"Oh thank you kindly, milord. I am the lucky one, you best believe," Sansa smiles up at Sandor, who only grunts out a laugh, watching Sansa wind the captain around her finger while praising her husband.

"We are here looking for a wanted man, the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. He is charged with the murder of King Joffrey Baratheon and is a fugitive reported to be in these lands."

"We haven't seen no imp on this Isle," Sandor rasps low.

"My husband speaks truly. The only folks we've seen since we got here are the brothers. I wish we could be more help to you," Sansa frowns, feigning disappointment. "Please forgive us but I'm feeling poor and need to rest a bit. Is that all, milord?"

"Yes, Sarah, for now. You both may return to your quarters. We will find you should we need anything further," the captain smiles and motions for his men to step aside for them.

"Thank you kindly milord. Good day," Sansa smiles. Ignoring the leering soldiers, she holds her head high and walks past the men on Sandor's arm without giving them so much as a glance. The men follow her figure all too eagerly, only to quickly turn away when they meet Sandor's murderous glare.

Elder brother holds his hand up to the soldiers. "You men are guests here on the Quiet Isle as well. You best keep that fact in the forefront of your thoughts if you wish to stay here. It is not proper for you to stare lasciviously at a young married woman in this holy place, regardless of how you behave in King's Landing. I must insist you give Sarah the honor which is due her and respect the sanctity of their union."

"Beg pardon, Elder brother," the captain approaches Elder brother, speaking low. "They meant no harm, I am sure. It has been some time since they have been in female company and have forgotten their manners, so it would seem. I will make sure their behavior remains honorable while we are here."

"See that you do," Elder brother responds coolly. "Have you nothing to say to the young lady?"

The captain turns to Sansa, bowing low. "I beg pardon, my lady. Please forgive my men."

Glancing at Sandor, she replies, "I believe it's my husband's pardon you should be asking for."

"Quite right, my lady. Edric, please accept my apologies on behalf of my men. It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't," Sandor growls menacingly. "None of you speak to her again, you hear?"

"Of course. She will not be disturbed again, you have my word."

Elder brother smiles tersely. "You are most fortunate Edric is a penitent man." Turning to the couple he says, "Please, Edric, Sarah join me in your quarters, I have some more medicines for you," he smiles at the couple, motioning for them to follow.

Sheepishly the soldiers retreat to the dining hall as Sandor and Sansa follow Elder brother back to the cabin. Once inside, Sandor bolts the door closed. "Buggering bastards! If it wasn't for you Elder brother, I would have torn them limb from limb."

"Thank the Seven we are free of them. Sandor, you did very well under such trying circumstances. Before I became a brother of the Seven, I doubt I would have done half so well with such louts."

Turning to Sandor, Elder brother places his arm on Sandor's shoulder. "You both are aware this is a holy place and I cannot condone any violence here as a man of the Seven," he sighs, "But as a man once joined to a woman in heart as well as body, I must say to you: do not hold back here, Sandor, from protecting your wife. The Seven expect you to defend your wedded wife and your sacred union and I will not condemn you doing so in any way you see fit. Do I make myself understood?"

Grinning wickedly, Sandor nods. "I understand you perfect, Elder brother," he says, and before Sansa can protest he moves his robes to show the swords strapped to his thighs. Chuckling, Elder brother slaps him on the back, "There's a good lad. Now then, I think it would be the safest course to have you both disappear for a bit and give the soldiers a chance to forget about Sansa."

"Yes, yes that sounds like a good idea," Sansa readily agrees. "But where can we go?"

"The unexpected arrival of the soldiers has taxed our resources here in a most unexpected way. The sept is running low on food stuffs and other supplies and we shall need volunteers to travel to Maidenpool to restock our provisions sooner than would typically be needed. Would you both be willing to go? The trip is a bit arduous and may take a week or more."

"Aye, anything to get out of here for a bit," Sandor grunts low. "We'll need a wagon. Maiden will follow Stranger's lead and though it's been a while they've been trained to harness. After they adjust I expect we should be fine with them."

"Excellent. I will have Brother McCann prepare the wagon at once. Septon Meribald will give you a list of our needs and the coinage for the purchase. I will personally see to your provisions and please, take all the furs and any essentials you consider necessary from the cabin as well."

"You are very kind, Elder brother. We are so very grateful to you and the old gods and the new, for everything."

"Think nothing of it, my dear. You do us a great service by volunteering to make this journey. Allow me to bring you some refreshment while your things are made ready," Elder brother smiles and then winks. "Sandor, it would be wise to wear your light armor under your robes and pack any weapons you believe essential."

"I always do," Sandor's face twitches into a half-smile, amused to hear a holy brother of the Seven encouraging him to arm himself. The holy man is nothing like he expected when they first arrived, and Sandor must admit Elder brother is unlike any other religious person he has met. Slowly he is beginning to feel he may in fact trust the man enough to seek his advice once he returns.

"Lady Sansa, with Sandor's permission, I will find you a pair of men's breeches and shirt, as well as a coat and hat. It will go easier for the both of you if you dress as a squire."

Sandor nods in agreement. "Tie up your hair lass. That should do nicely, at least from a distance. We'll keep a fur around your shoulders, too, to hide your womanly shape."

"Yes, that would be fine. I'll make haste to gather our things," Sansa smiles broadly, hurrying to pack their few belongings as Elder brother leaves the cabin.

"Oh Sandor, the gods have provided for us again! Just think, we will be able to leave without any problems since we are sent on an errand by the brothers," she beams at him, folding the furs from the bed and stacking them into a neat pile.

"Aye, lass, though the trip to Maidenpool is not an easy one, that. It's a rough place since the war no doubt, and we best keep our wits about us. Dangerous men are likely afoot, so you best keep your head down and close to me, understood?"

"Of course, Sandor. I'm just so relieved we will be away from the soldiers," she shudders involuntarily, thinking of the way the men leered at her.

"Are you now? You should have let me carve out their eyes then," he grins roguishly at her before suddenly turning serious. "Any of them do such again and they're all as good as dead. I'll not think twice."

Wrapping her arms around his waist, Sansa smiles up at him sadly. "I know, my love. You always keep me safe and that was terribly disrespectful. I would not have stopped you back there, you must know that."

Sighing, he pulls her close. "If this bunch goes missing, the Lannisters will only send more soldiers, just like they did with Bronn and Gregor. It's better if we fool them for a while and not risk more coming here. We'll travel to Maidenpool, get the supplies, and by the time we return they will most likely all be out in the countryside searching for the Imp."

"Why do you suppose they would look for him here of all places?"

"I've wondered that myself. It makes no sense at all, unless they are just doing it to appease Cersei and Tywin."

"I wonder if Jaime has heard it in my brother's camp," Sansa tisks lightly. "You know, I heard it said more than once that Joffrey was his own son. If such is true, he is bound to take his death very hard."

"Aye, that he will. Cersei is the only woman he has ever been with and he is more loyal than even her own husband to her."

Shaking her head in disgust, Sansa swallows hard. "Thank the gods and you, my love, that I am free of them. I wonder what Robb will do now? Do you think he will bring his men to King's Landing?"

"I doubt it. The Young Wolf needs more support should he want to take the capital city. Tywin's not going to hand over his daughter and greatchildren, for certain. No, I believe your brother will be treating with the lords of the Vale and Riverlands first for a bit. He'll also need to handle that matter with the Freys. They won't forget their daughter's shame, though they have none of their own, the bastards."

Hearing the very name sends a sickening dread through Sansa. "Oh, don't I know it. I fear for my brother and Mother, too. He made a terrible mistake angering them, though I would never condemn him for marrying for love. Such is the way of our family, it seems," Sansa replies sadly. "Marrying for love will cost us dearly, no doubt, but I would not have it any other way."

Sandor does not tell her she has every right to fear the consequences of her brother's actions with the Freys, not for what they might do to her but for the hurt they would inflict on her family. He has sensed there will be a heavy price to pay for Robb's recklessness ever since he heard of his marriage.

Looking at her sad expression, he wants to tell her she will be safe, that he will kill every last fucking Frey he can find if they ever hurt her family. Instead he moves in front of her and takes the bundle from her arms and lays it on the bed. She looks at him questioningly until Sandor kneels before her and takes her hands in his.

"You say the word Sansa and I'll take you to your family. Bugger the Lannisters, the Baratheons, the Freys and the whole bloody war. The Warrior himself won't be able to stop us, if that's what you wish," he growls. "I'll bend the knee if the Young Wolf will have me and fight his war, little bird, if it will make you happy. I'll keep him safe, help him win back your home. Tell me and it's done, I swear it."

Tears well in Sansa's eyes as she stares at her beloved husband, touched by his gruff, passionate expression of devotion. He is at once the ferocious Hound and yet so very willing to do anything to secure her happiness. Sansa's heart surges with love for him as she stares into his deep gray eyes. "It is a beautiful offer, my husband and I love you for it," she begins, trembling with emotion as she kisses his hands tenderly.

Looking into his eyes, she continues, "Please believe me when I say no, I would not have us go there. Whenever I think of going to the Riverlands I am filled with an inexplicable fear, of what I do not know. It may sound strange but it never fails that afterward I dream of my father, who warns us to stay together and to go to Jon. I fear what this may mean for my brother and mother," she says wringing her hands. "Whatever the future holds, I will not risk losing you my love, not for anyone, not for anything. You are mine as I am yours. I love you and I would not sacrifice you for the sake of my family," she whispers, taking his face in her hands and kissing him tenderly.

Sandor pulls her close in a tight embrace, burying his face in her hair and inhaling her scent. "I'll do anything for you, believe that. Anything you want. Say the word and it will be done, Sansa."

"Thank you Sandor…I love you so much for it. What I want is for us to stay here for a bit, to stay out of this war until the time is right to head north to the Wall, to go to Jon. I know Father will let us know when the time comes. Then I will be ready to leave here, unless we need to go sooner, of course."

"Then that is what we'll do little bird," Sandor grins at her before kissing her soundly. "Let's get this stuff ready to go."

After a quick meal, Sandor, Elder McCann, Elder brother and Septon Meribald load the wagon while Sansa feeds Stranger and Maiden. Now dressed in rough spun pants, long stockings, a tunic and woolen vest and a heavy coat lined with fur, Sansa cannot help but marvel at her new-found freedom of movement as she goes about her chores. "You're the prettiest squire I ever had," Sandor grins as he watches her work, enjoying the view of her figure in trousers. When the horses finish eating, Sandor bridles and collars both horses. Cautiously he then straps on the leather harness and hitches them to the wagon while feeding them both plenty of apples during the dressing to make the process go smoothly.

The soldiers watch the proceedings from a distance without approaching or offering help. The captain takes Elder brother to the side when he returns to the sept. "Is it really necessary to send away your penitents for provisions, Elder brother? Is there not another brother available for such a task?"

"It is my decision to send Sarah and Edric to Maidenpool, Captain Manderly," Septon Meribald states authoritatively. "I made it a matter of prayer. It is not for you to decide what a proper atonement is for others; that is for the Seven to decide. The brothers here do not presume to tell you how to fulfill your duties and I would be most pleased if you would extend us the same courtesy."

"What has the couple done to require such an extraordinary effort for forgiveness?" Captain Manderly laughs derisively.

Septon Meribald narrows his eyes at the man. "They are sinners, the same as you. One sin is no different from another, good man. Lusting after another man's wife is just as serious as murder or lying or drunkenness, the Seven teach us. We all fall short and need grace many times, is that not so?"

"Yes, Septon Meribald, I would have to agree, though I dare say some sins are more serious than others, despite your beliefs."

"Such is the thinking of sinners, to be sure. If not for such narrow-minded thinking, the world would be a much different place. I hope to see you and your men at services on the morrow."

"Of course." The captain stares at Septon Meribald a moment, looking as if he may have more to say but then changes his mind, instead hurrying back to his men.

When the provisions are finished being loaded on to the wagon, Septon Meribald gives Sandor the money pouch and list, which he tucks inside his leather jerkin. "We'll return as soon as possible septon. No one will rob us, don't you worry," Sandor nods to the man.

Smiling, Septon Meribald makes the sign over the couple. "May the Seven watch over you on this holy errand and make your path smooth and safe. May good health and clear weather follow you on your journey my children, and that you will return to us better than you left."

"So be it," responds Elder brother, Elder McCann and Sansa, with Sandor soon answering in kind after a nudge from his wife. Taking Sandor off to the side, Elder brother whispers, "Do you read the stars, Sandor?"

"Yes, a bit. Enough to find my way," Sandor replies low, tightening his grip on the reigns while Stranger chomps at the bit, eager to go.

"At dusk, follow the north star off the trail and it will lead you to a little hut hidden in the brush. The brothers use it to pass the night on the road; you may take your ease there until morning."

"Aye, we will. Many thanks."

"My lady, you stay warm and dry and drink the teas I provided," Elder brother pats her arm.

"Yes, Elder brother, you are too kind."

After helping Sansa into the wagon, Sandor waves to the brothers. "Thank you men, for everything. We should be back by weeks' end, if we meet with good weather."

"The gods go with you both," Elder brother smiles as he watches the couple ride away.


	34. Lessons for the Little bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter there are a few nods to two of my favorite authors, purpleann and caroh99. Also, a special thanks to ladytp, whose latest story made me think "shield mates" is a part of life Sansa should learn about ;)
> 
> I have begun rewriting and editing this fic even as it progresses, having noticed that my continuing to write while on pain medication brought a somewhat questionable quality to this story LOL. I'll update when I finish and hope you will find the quality much improved from when it began. Thank you for all your help and con/crit!

The dusty path leading away from the septry is desolate, save for the occasional bird or coyote briefly appearing along the way. The sandy coastline gradually turns into a winding wooded forest with dense trees canopying the well-traveled road to Maidenpool.

When the rosy glow of dusk falls over the region, Sandor turns the wagon off the trail and follows the northern star as Elder brother directed. "Keep on the lookout for a trail marker, Sansa," Sandor grunts, struggling to control the warhorses, each one determined to lead.

"A trail marker, you say? What should I be looking for?"

"Oh, it might be stones grouped together in a type of arrangement that you know wouldn't occur. It might be a series of hatchet marks on a tall tree or a distinctive shape carved into the bark. You'll know it when you see it."

Studying their surroundings carefully, after several minutes Sansa points to a large evergreen with the familiar seven pointed star symbolizing the Faith of the Seven meticulously carved into the bark. "Sandor, look there! Might that be the trail marker?"

Pulling reign on the horses and handing Sansa the leads, Sandor jumps out of the wagon and studies the tree, running his large hand over the small image. "Aye, lass, looks like you found it. See how the etching is on the north facing side of the tree about five feet from the forest floor?"

"Oh, yes; does that mean something?"

"It tells us the cabin is about five miles due north of this spot." Squinting, Sandor kneels down and studies the ground at his feet.

"How did you learn such, husband?" Sansa asks, wondering if this is the sort of thing Arya learned from Jon, Robb and Jory.

"Braden taught me when we were both lads. He taught me many things, like how to lay a trout line, set a snare, skin a buck. He showed me how to find water in a tree and read the stars and the weather-things a father teaches a son or an older brother teaches their siblings." Sandor replies darkly before staring off into the distance.

"My father taught my brothers such things. I was never interested in learning about the forest so I do not know if they would have tried to teach me or not."

"Gregor," he growls low, "He never taught us shit. All that sadistic fuck ever taught me and Sarah was how to live in fear."

Unsure what to say, Sansa merely nods sadly. Over time she has witnessed the many ways growing up with Gregor profoundly traumatized her husband, the outer scars on his face being the least sign of the lasting damage his monstrous brother wrought on him.

After silently asking the gods for help, she softly offers, "You learned how to survive the very worst Sandor and what is more, you learned how to move on. One day you will teach our children all the things Braden taught you, my love." Shrugging, he conspicuously avoids her gaze, continuing to search the ground for signs.

"May I help you find whatever it is you are looking for? I want to learn," she says, hoping to break the mood.

"I'm looking for where the mossy ground cover is disturbed; it will tell us where the trail begins." Sandor grunts, kicking at the ground with the toe of his boot. Turning over a depression in the greenery, Sandor grins up at her. "Here, here is the start of the trail to the cabin, Little bird."

"Oh, how clever!" Sansa exclaims, smiling happily at him as she bends down to look. "No one would ever notice such unless you were specifically looking for it. Arya would have loved to learn about this."

Barking out a sharp laugh, Sandor nods. "Aye, she would at that. She was always pestering the men in the training yard for lessons at King's Landing."

Laughing, Sansa nods. "She did the same at Winterfell, too. Jory Cassel used to call her 'Arya Underfoot.' I never wanted to learn such when I was younger; I thought it unladylike and not proper for a highborn. I wish I had learned, and most eager to learn now. I am very fortunate to have such a cunning husband to teach me."

Turning serious, Sandor says quietly, "I'm the lucky one, Sansa, you best believe that," he says, patting her leg.

Sansa smiles at him. "So tell me, why do men use such markers?"

"It's a way of keeping trespassers away. Taking such steps keeps the sellswords and lowlife from finding the brother's place. We'll need to take it slow and most likely reach the cabin in a few hours."

As night settles over the land, a small log cabin covered in moss comes into sight. "Looks like we found the place," Sandor grins at his wife, tweaking her chin. "Thank the gods, Sandor. Oh, I really think riding in the wagon is much more uncomfortable than on Stranger's back, don't you?"

Amused, Sandor nods; it is the first time during their travels he recalls hearing her complain. "It's that buggering wooden plank bench; it's not fit for that pretty backside of yours. Come on, let's get you down from here," he laughs, lifting her by the waist and setting her down. Sansa eagerly starts toward the cabin before Sandor blocks her way with his arm, holding his finger to his lips while slowly drawing his sword.

Guardedly approaching the small dwelling, Sandor warily peeks through the small glass window before eyeing the surrounding area. After several moments, Sansa notices his stance relaxes and he turns to grin at her. "It's all right, love. I didn't mean to scare you. I just need to make sure we didn't come upon someone unexpectedly."

"Oh, yes of course. Forgive my carelessness, my love. I should not have just walked up to the cabin in such a way."

"These are rough parts, wife. We must stay on guard at all times, understand?"

"Yes, I promise I'll be more cautious."

Glancing around, Sandor notices the cabin is situated against a large boulder, blocking approach from the rear. There is only one window which faces the wood and the structure is completely overgrown with greenery. A small creek runs along one side, allowing easy access to fresh water, fish and bathing.

"Clever place. No one would find it unless they were looking for it and the place more often than not is easily missed by the casual traveler, I'll wager." Satisfied the area is secure, Sandor nods approvingly. "This place will suit us nicely. We should be safe here. Stranger and Maiden will alert us should anyone approach in the night."

Hugging his arm close to her chest, Sansa beams up at him, leading him to the door. Turning the handle, the couple finds it locked. Chuckling, Sandor removes a small pouch from Elder brother. "Key," he explains, placing it in the lock before ducking under the door frame as he enters the cabin with Sansa in tow.

Once inside, the couple sees the interior is somewhat dusty but otherwise comfortable enough. A small white rock fireplace stands in one corner, a narrow bed in the other. A pitcher and basin for washing as well as two plates, cups and sets of utensils lay on the table. "I'll never fit on that bloody bed," Sandor grumbles. "Seven hells, it's not even big enough for you, lass. Did Crannogmen build this place or what?"

Laughing, Sansa takes his hand. "We'll make a bed with the furs on the floor in front of the fire. It's chilly in here as it is and on the way in I noticed dark clouds billowing up. It will most likely storm later tonight."

They quickly set about the chores for the evening. Sandor sets out a trout line in the shallow part of the creek and chops wood while Sansa carefully feeds, waters and brushes down the horses. Having caught five good-sized fish, Sandor carefully cleans and cooks their dinner as Sansa sets about tidying up the cabin, making it as comfortable as possible for their stay.

After dinner the rain begins pattering softly against the mossy roof of the cabin. Snuggling down under the furs, the couple settles down in front of the fire. "Are you happy, wife?" Sandor asks, leisurely running his hands through her hair.

"I have never been happier in my life than I am with you," Sansa smiles, turning her face up to his and drawing his head down, kissing him soundly. "Are you happy, husband?"

"Aye, that I am. More than I ever thought possible. It's been three moons since we married in the Riverlands as of today."

Taking his hand, Sansa kisses it several times. "I know. I wondered if you would remember."

Laughing, Sandor traces the back of his hand over her face. "Of course I bloody well remember." Pausing, he shifts beneath her. "You deserve better than a series of run-down cabins, love. I wish I could give you the comfortable life you're accustomed to."

Rising up, Sansa gently cups his cheek in her hand. "I am happy with you. It matters not where, as long as we are together I am thoroughly content, you must believe that. There is more to a comfortable life than material things."

"When I stood guard for Joffrey, I used to think what kind of place the two of us would have, just to pass the time," Sandor admits somewhat sheepishly.

"Oh, yes? When did you start that?" Sansa asks, visibly surprised. Her big man, the fearsome Hound, used to daydream about her? He was always so brutal and negative back there, she doubted he ever hoped or wished for anything. Sansa is both touched and amused by his admission; she does not tease him, however, for fear he will clam up if she does.

"After the riots, when I broke down your door in the Red Keep. I saw you there with Shae, as beautiful as anything, with your sleeping gown slipping off your shoulders. It got my mind to wondering what sort of place the two of us would have one day. I knew it was impossible to think you would ever go with me but a part of me liked to think on it just the same." Sandor mutters low, shifting beneath her once more.

"Not as impossible a thing as you once thought, is it?" Sansa giggles, cupping his cheek. "Tell me, love, what sort of place did you picture for us?"

"Seven hells, woman, you don't want to hear such nonsense," he growls, pulling away from her. _I never should have mentioned it; she'll never let it go now._

"Please tell me, love," Sansa pleads, her curiosity piqued by his sudden self-conscious air, having never seen him in such a mood.

Clearing his throat, Sandor rests his chin on her crown. "I used to imagine us in a nice log cabin beside a river, maybe in the Riverlands or the Vale. Someplace with a view of the mountains, where you would still have summer snows to satisfy your love of the north. I would build us a large stone fireplace and a get us a really large bathing tub fit for two. I'd build us a weirwood bed big enough for the likes of me to stretch out, and for our pups when the time comes."

Sansa dearly wants to squeal in happiness at his words but refrains, sensing he will go no further if she expresses such delight. Instead she smiles and caresses his face, saying softly, "It sounds like the seven heavens. What else will we have, love?"

"Since you love your bloody lemoncakes, I'd build you a small greenhouse so you can have lemons year round and other such things. We'd have us a few horses and maybe other animals around the place for the kids. We could raise dogs, train them like my grandfather taught me." Sighing, he suddenly stops and clears his throat once more.

She feels the tension in his body, feels he is anxiously awaiting her response and Sansa sits in stunned silence, never imagining her fierce husband had such domestic ideas for them. It deeply touches her heart to learn even in the Red Keep he dreamed of their future family. "It is a beautiful, perfect dream, my love. We will have such a place one day, I just know it," Sansa smiles through happy tears.

"Bloody unlikely, that. You'll be wanting to return to Winterfell, not settle in some remote place with me," he scoffs, suddenly moving to get up.

 _How could he say such a thing?_   Sansa wonders, his words send a sharp pain straight to her heart. "No, Sandor, that's not true, I-"

"I thought you were through with chirping," he rasps sullenly, sounding once again like the angry Hound. "I'm no fool. I've long known it was just a ridiculous fantasy of mine, one you would never share. I bloody well know you would do anything to go home. Why do you think I hesitated to tell you of it? It doesn't matter anyway, Sansa. You have a loyal dog in me; I'll follow you anywhere."

"You mustn't say such to me," Sansa whispers, bitter tears streaming down her face. His words take her breath away, in the same way a blow from Meryn once did long ago. _Does he really believe I would not go with him, that I would disregard his dreams and wishes to go back to Winterfell at the first opportunity?_   Turning to face him, she tilts his face to hers so he will look into her eyes. "You are no dog, you are my beloved husband. You are my whole life! The gods brought us together," she begins sadly.

Sandor roughly moves away from her and shakes his head, snorting derisively. "You're a highborn, lass. You think you don't want all the finer things and maybe you don't at that, not now anyway. Wait until you see it all again and realize what you've given up. Once you see the fancy gowns and silks and painted dishes and rich food your family has…I'll look like a piss poor choice, to be sure. I know how the bloody world works. Any place we have after that will look like a fucking privy."

Pursing her lips, Sansa shakes her head angrily, hissing, "Oh, no you don't, Sandor Clegane. This is not about me at all; this is about you feeling you aren't good enough, that you won't make me happy-that the only way I could possibly be happy is with riches and luxury."

"That's fucking nonsense, the lot of it. I-"

"No, Sandor, you don't get to disregard what I have to say after you make such a claim about me," Sansa interrupts him, her voice quivering. "Just earlier today you offered to take me wherever I wanted to go, even back to my family, no matter the outcome-and I chose _you!_   I chose to stay with _you_ , wherever we might find a place. I chose what is best for _both_ of us! Do not even try to deny this is about you being afraid."

Gritting his teeth, Sandor pounds his fist against the table in frustration. "I'm not fucking afraid of anything, damn it, woman. You're still just a scared Little bird; you don't know what you want, not truly."

"I am not the one that is afraid! You are the one that is afraid-you have been ever since we left King's Landing. You snarl and bark and you'll kill anyone who crosses you, true enough, without a second thought. You did not even fear your monster of a brother but when it comes to me, to us, you are the one who is afraid. I saw it in your eyes in my room before we left, just as I see it now."

"Mayhaps because _I'm_   the one who stands to lose the most, Sansa-have you ever bloody considered that? If I'm out of the picture, you still have Winterfell, your kin…"

"And you think if I am gone, you will be left with nothing and that frightens you," she whispers, suddenly understanding. Reaching out to him, she takes one of his large hands into her own. "I will never, ever leave you, Sandor. Look at me," she says, holding his face in her hands. "I will never leave you. I'll be brave enough for the both of us until you believe my words. Please don't be afraid to trust me, my love and my commitment to you and our family."

Sighing heavily, Sandor nods slowly, staring at their entwined fingers, "Bloody hells, Sansa," he mutters. He believed once they were married, his fear of being alone would disappear, never dreaming it would come back to haunt them in the most unexpected ways. Always ready for any physical confrontation, it never occurred to Sandor to be afraid of anything but the truth of Sansa's simple words burn within him.

"I know it's hard for you, Sandor. I understand that having someone love you is new and sometimes difficult for you. All I ask is that you give me a chance and please, have a little faith in me."

Sandor sheepishly rubs his hand over his face, muttering low, "I do, lass and you speak truly: it's my own foolishness. You are too good to me. For all your taming, I'm still a just a half-wild, mean-tempered dog that bites any hand that tries to pet him."

"You are not a dog, Sandor and I will keep telling you so until you believe my words. You are my man, my beloved husband." Moving closer, she curls up against his chest, tenderly rubbing delicate circles over his heart. "I love you. No matter what happens, I will never leave you. I will always choose you first. I swear it on our marriage, on our future family and on the old gods and the new."

Scooping her up in his arms, Sandor buries his face in her hair, choking out his tears while he desperately clings to her. "Little bird, forgive me," he whispers into her hair. "No matter what, I should not say such to you. You've been good to me and don't deserve my growling."

"I already have," Sansa whispers against his beard, kissing her way to his mouth. "We'll get through this, my love, I just know we will."

Her faith in him breaks him, body and soul and Sandor knows he will do all he can to change for her and their future family. Sandor readily takes her into his arms and greedily presses his lips against hers, his ardor causing Sansa to catch her breath before moaning into his mouth.

Gently swirling his tongue against hers, he kisses her deeply while lifting her into his arms and laying her down on the furs, never removing his lips from her own. He takes his time, tenderly kissing her and running his hands reverently over her body until he sees she is breathing heavily from his attentions. Moving his way down her neck, he eagerly fumbles with her tunic and breeches, hastily divesting her of her clothing before stepping away to remove his own.

With her lovely red hair spread all around her and her porcelain skin flushed with desire, pride surges inside him along with his passion. She is so very beautiful, so perfect that Sandor cannot help but stare at her lying before him in the firelight. _What in seven hells did I do that the gods saw fit to give me such a woman?_   Sandor wonders, musing on her promises while he admires the beauty she presents before him.

"What is wrong?" She whispers throatily, shyly smiling as she beckons him to join her. "Nothing, Little bird, nothing is wrong. I'm just thinking on you, that you're perfect and I don't deserve you," he rasps into her neck, resuming trailing his tongue along her collar bone and down to her breast.

"You mustn't say such, I-" Sansa breaths before he silences her by taking her nipple into his mouth, slowly tracing every detail with his tongue. "My love," she gasps again, running her hands through his hair and pulling him even closer.

Leisurely he kisses and suckles each of her breasts until Sansa writhes under him, begging for more. "I do love you, Little bird," he whispers against the skin on her stomach before hitching her legs over his shoulders, hungrily running his tongue along her delicate folds.

"Oh gods, Sandor, that feels so good," Sansa pants out, throwing her head back and arching into him, her pleasure reaching unbelievable heights under his mouth and tongue. Gently he explores her woman's place, tenderly sucking the hardened nub of her arousal until suddenly his beautiful little bird arches her back with a cry, finding her release under his tongue. Sandor continues languidly laving her while she sobs out her pleasure, gripping him tightly against her.

Blushing furiously with a mixture of embarrassment and heated desire, Sansa moves her hands over his shoulders. "Come into me, my love," she whispers thickly into his hair as he covers her with his body, tightly wrapping her legs around his waist.

Thrusting deep inside of her, Sandor gasps at the sudden tightness of her body and quickly loses control of himself, driving his manhood fast and deep into her with abandon. He feels her small fingers digging into his back, hears her moaning and sighing beneath him, her pleasure intensifying his own. Breathing raggedly, Sansa peaks once more, her inner walls tightening almost painfully around his throbbing manhood, squeezing Sandor's release from his body. The passionate cries of their lovemaking resonate loudly inside the tiny cabin, causing Sandor to chuckle softly into her hair. "You forgive me now, wife?"

Laughing, Sansa soothingly runs her hands over his back and Sandor rolls over and possessively gripping her waist, he pulls her close to his chest. "Oh yes, husband. I would quarrel with you more often just to make up with you if I had known this was the outcome."

Resting her cheek against him, Sansa runs her fingers through the thick dark hair on his chest. "Sandor, I want our log cabin beside the river and our fireplace and our tub built for two and our weirwood bed. I want our greenhouse and our hounds and horses. I want our children to have the life you dreamt for them, for us as a family. I want them to know how their father loved and planned a life for them long before they were born."

Lifting her chin up to him, Sandor grins at her. "Then you best believe I'll find a way to make it a reality, love. I'd bloody well do anything for you and our family," he growls, squeezing her even closer against him. "I'll not question your devotion again, I swear it love." Sated, the couple soon falls asleep to the sound of the rain softly falling outside.

* * *

 

The next morning dawns bright and clear and Sandor is up at first light readying the wagon while Sansa puts together a modest meal to break their fast. "We'll eat on the road love," he calls and she nods, packing everything into the wagon.

By late afternoon the couple finally arrives at the walls of the war ravaged town of Maidenpool. Sandor pulls reign on the horses and straps on his heavy armor. "Tuck in that hair lass and do not speak at all, you hear? Not even when we find lodging and you think we are alone. Walls are thin and it'll be hard enough to pass you off as a boy without anyone hearing your sweet voice."

Slowly Sandor urges the horses onward, taking note that the gates are smashed open. Once inside, Sansa and Sandor exchange nervous glances; half the shops are burned out and there is an air of danger among the remaining villagers.

Grubby townsfolk mill about the village square, eying the newcomers warily as they slowly ride through. "Hot meals, warm beds and even warmer women, this way!" Comes the shout from a lively albeit flea-bitten tavern. "We'll try not to stay there, lass, though there may not be any other alternatives in this gods-forsaken place. We can gather information here, though, so sit tight and remember, you're a squire, not a lady."

Sansa only nods, trying not to show her discomfort as several men approach the wagon as they stop in front of the tavern. A few drunken Lannister soldiers stagger outside, waving at the couple. "Come on in, friends! Buy us another round, it's the custom for newcomers, you know!"

"We'll not be doing that today, ser," Sandor rasps low, snarling out the last word. "We've come from the Quiet Isle on an errand for the holy brothers of the Seven at the septry. Where might we find lodging that befits men of the faith?" _Seven buggering hells…_

"The hay loft in the blacksmith's stables is about the only place fitting for the likes of you, holy man," the first soldier laughs.

"That'll suit us just fine," Sandor tosses a stag at him and nods in thanks, relieved they won't need to stay in the tavern. "Next round is on me for your help."

"We got us a rich septon here," the soldier crows, showing off the coin to his friends. Grunting, Sandor mutters, "I'm no septon, boy, just a penitent and a not quite tamed one at that."

The men stare for a moment, taking note of his muscular build covered in heavy armor as well as the swords on his back. One soldier takes a particular interest in Sansa, eyeing her closely, much to Sandor's discomfort. "This your squire?"

"Yes, Jon is his name."

Sansa nods at the man and then quickly averts her eyes. In her best imitation of Arya, she then leans over the side of the wagon and noisily spits onto the ground with a snort, the sight causing Sandor to laugh out loud.

"Don't he speak?" The soldier asks irritably.

Sandor seethes inwardly. "No, the boy is mute, has been since birth." _Why so many fucking questions?_

"He's awful pretty, that's for sure," the soldier comments, looking Sansa over. "You say he's your squire…or your shield mate?" The men erupt in laughter.

 _A shield mate?_   Sansa wonders to herself. In King's Landing, she never heard such a term among the knights and yet judging by the look on Sandor's face, her husband understands exactly what the soldier means.

Leaning over her, Sandor follows his wife's lead and spits at the man's feet derisively, causing the soldier to step back. "Go bugger yourselves with a hot poker. You heard me the first time. You men have been without a woman so long that a boy starts looking good to you, is that it?" Sandor sneers, his snarling laughter echoing in the square. "Enough talk, boy. I answered your questions, gave you enough coin for drink and a whore besides. Let us pass."

"He's done us a good turn; let him go, Brad," another soldier laughs, slapping the young man on the back.

Grinning, the young soldier named Brad steps aside. "Alright, today's your lucky day, holy man; I'm gonna let you and that wicked tongue of yours go this time."

"Many thanks, boy," Sandor growls before barking out a harsh laugh. "Come on Stranger," he calls out, nudging the horses onward. "That was a close one, Little bird," he mutters under his breath. "That soldier named Brad was my former squire in King's Landing, one of the lesser members of the Lannister household."

Gasping audibly, Sansa remembers not to speak and so she only nods and squeezes his arm in response.

The stable is located at the other end of the square, far away from the tavern. After paying the blacksmith, Sandor waters and feeds the horses before leading Sansa up into the hayloft. She sets about making a nest of sorts for them out of the chaff and furs while Sandor slices up cheese, jerky and bread for their supper.

Sansa leans in close to her husband, moving his long hair and whispering into his ear, "I'm glad we aren't staying at the tavern."

"Are you now?" He grins, his eyes twinkling. "As am I, lass. I would've had to fight those soldiers, I think. Seems passing you off as a boy isn't much of a deterrent for those fellows."

Puzzled, Sansa nods and then whispers, "What's a shield mate?"

Choking, Sandor coughs loudly and then dissolves into laughter. "Bloody hells, Little bird-the questions you ask!" Seeing she is genuinely curious, he turns more serious. "Sometimes men, when they're in battle and away from their women, take up with another man." Frowning, Sansa shakes her head, confusion clouding her face.

"They take up with a man the way they normally would a woman, just while they are away from home. Understand?"

Slowly, her blue eyes grow large as she begins to grasp the meaning of his words. "But that is against the faith of the Seven," she whispers, eliciting another laugh from her husband. "So is killing and raping, Little bird, even if it is sanctioned by the king. Men live by another set of rules when they're at war, even your so-called honorable knights will pillage and rape when given the chance. Having a shield mate is the least of it. Don't tell me you never heard about the Knight of Flowers and Renly Baratheon."

Searching her mind, she remembers overhearing a comment Petyr Baelish made to the king's brother the day of the tourney. Loras Tyrell had just bested Gregor Clegane in the joust and Lord Baelish lost a considerable sum to Renly Baratheon as a result of his win. "Such a shame Littlefinger. It would have been so nice for you to have a friend," the handsome young man crowed from far above her and her father's seat, drawing their attention.

Lord Baelish smugly replied with a wicked grin, "And when will you be having _your_  friend, Lord Renly?" Sansa did not understand the comment at the time but knew better than to question her father in front of others. Looking back she recalls how terribly uncomfortable her father seemed hearing Petyr's remark.

Arya, however, felt no such restraint. "Father, what did Littlefinger mean by 'have your friend'? He said it like it's a bad thing. Who did he mean is Renly's friend-is it Loras?" Her sister had whispered loud enough for everyone around them to hear. "Never you mind, lass," her father replied, patting Arya on the leg with a look that silenced her at once. Sansa remembers hearing Littlefinger chuckling loudly behind her.

"Yes…come to think of it I did hear something from Petyr Baelish the day of the Hand's tourney, right before Gregor killed his horse," Sansa speaks into his ear, causing him to laugh once more. "And once that happened, that put an end to the questions, didn't it?"

"Yes, in fact I had forgotten all about it until now." Sansa sits quietly for several moments, letting Sandor's words sink in. "Did you ever have such in battle, Sandor? I…I would not judge you harshly, even if it is against the gods," she offers, causing Sandor to choke at her words.

"Seven save me! Your septa's turning over in her grave, you know," he laughs, wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand. "No Little bird, I never had one, nor did I want one. I only ever went with women."

"Do very many men do it?" She asks, thinking of her kingly brother in battle.

Sighing, he pulls her closer, whispering into her ear. "It's not something men talk about. When men return from battle, they usually go back to women."

"Except Renly and Loras."

"Except those two, yes. If such a relationship became common knowledge in court, both men would have paid dearly for it, I'll tell you that. Maybe even executed over it, if the High Septon had his way."

"Do you think that's why no one but you went to help Loras with Gregor? Because they knew about their relationship and disapproved?"

"More like than not. It mattered not to me what the two of them did in private. That boy didn't deserve what Gregor would have done to him, regardless."

"Do you think such is wrong, too? I know you don't really keep any of the gods."

Sighing, he lays her down beside him and covers them both with the furs. "Bloody hells, after the way I've lived, who am I to say what is wrong? I don't think I like the idea much for myself and another thing, I think at a certain little bird should quit her peeping and go to sleep."

"Alright, I will, love. Thank you for telling me," Sansa whispers to him with a mischievous smile, slowly kissing him several times before falling asleep in her husband's arms.


	35. Memories and Dreams

Long after Sansa fell asleep, Sandor gently caresses her back, wondering at how small she is in his arms. Her slow, even breaths rise and fall against his chest in a soothing rhythm and yet sleep is elusive to the exhausted man. The moonlight illuminates her face and he can see her dark red eyelashes fluttering occasionally against her porcelain cheeks. Watching her sweet face lost in tranquil dreams, Sandor is amazed that a beast like him is capable of imparting such a deep sense of comfort and reassurance in this delicate, beautiful little bird tucked securely beneath him.

A familiar darkness settles over Sandor and with it a much different scene from their past emerges. During their conversation in the Red Keep, he drunkenly forced her to look upon his scars in the torchlight. Frightened, Sansa cried and twisted away from him; though in hindsight he could not say if it was the sight of his disfigurement or his harsh, sullen manner that upset her more.

Against all odds the very same women he once terrified now has wrapped herself around him as she slumbers in his arms. They have come a long way from the heated exchange serpentine steps; it feels like a lifetime ago and looking back to that night he hardly recognizes the man was then.

Though he prides himself on being a hard man, Sandor revels in the contentment she brings him. Throughout his life Sandor has longed for the warm reassurance of human touch and aside from his sister, there have been precious few who ever offered. Sansa's questions about shield mates initially amused him, later giving way to gloomier, more unpleasant memories for the man.

After Gregor killed his parents and sister, Sandor left home on his twelfth name day to squire for Ser Amory Lorch. Horrified by the slaughter and violence surrounding him, Sandor discovered he was both unwilling and unable to wallow in the bloodshed as Gregor did. Eventually, as the sack of King's Landing progressed, a blessed numbness overcame him during battle but that did little to assuage the raw grief of losing his family, the unrelenting hunger and cold and uncertainty of survival that plagued him.

When Sandor let down his guard and showed signs of his struggle, Ser Amory Lorch and Gregor mocked him for it. One day Jaime Lannister handed him a flagon, telling him this was how his father taught him to come to grips with difficulty. No one dared mock the son of Tywin for showing an act of kindness to a scarred squire and thus Sandor learned to choke down his fear with wine. He and Jaime whiled away many an hour sharing a wineskin over the years that followed and it was the most consolation he hoped to experience at that time.

The relief the wine brought was temporary and quickly followed by the usual miseries of overindulgence. As soon as the army reached a semblance of a town, Sandor was always among the first to hurry to the nearest wine sink or brothel in search of a woman, eager to explore a new means of solace. Though Jaime warned him it was folly, he ignored the lion and gladly handed over his hard-earned coin for a chance at relief to whoever was willing to ignore his scars.

All the men laughed and made bawdy jokes about his appetites when he returned. Little did they know the increasingly fierce Hound was not merely eager for the sexual experience (though he certainly enjoyed that as well) but even more, he longed to be touched kindly, not only during battle or brawling with men eager to challenge him because of his size.

Though he would have stubbornly refuted it at the time, as a grown man Sandor cannot deny what he really craved most was the intimacy of touch, to feel the warmth of skin against his own, of hands running along his back and through his hair. There was no love with these nameless women to be sure, but there was comfort and consolation. In those brief moments Sandor felt like a man, not merely a brutal weapon of the Lannisters. The experience with women was new and satisfying to him and yet all too short-lived, leading the young man to seek it out when the opportunity presented itself.

Before long he would find himself in the heat of battle once more, longing for the solace only human contact provided. Ashamed by his weakness, Sandor alternated between burying his feelings in his anger and drowning them with copious amounts of wine.

From time to time he would often curiously observe how shield mates would massage the other's sore muscles after battle, bathe and care for wounds or sleep huddled together for warmth. Eventually to his great surprise he learned some men took it even further, and Sandor would have sworn and cursed the man who suggested he take on such a mate for himself. But the frightened young man within the scarred warrior longed for the tenderness such companionship provided and in circumspect the memory of his desperation and need for someone, anyone, to ease his despair troubles Sandor deeply.

Over time comfort became elusive to him, and Sandor learned soon enough that the soldiers were no more willing to gaze upon his scarred appearance than the women he met, adding to his wretchedness. No one offered to be his shield mate or would even look him in the face, let alone touch him willingly. Anger soon replaced his fear and shame fueled his fury. Hardening his heart against the world, he learned to forge his shame, terror, and emptiness into a singular black rage, into the Hound.

So successful was his transformation that he all but forgot the man Sandor Clegane, until the day the little bird shyly looked him in the face and smiled at him. He remembers how her soft skin called to him, and unable to resist the urge, he gently stroked her cheek as he looked down at her.

The little bird then did what no one had ever done before; her smile broadened at the feeling of his touch, and gazing up at him with unspoken gratitude, she gently touched his hand that cradled her face. Sandor knew then and there his life would never be the same and he had been right; from that day forward Sandor finally found in Sansa all the comfort, love and affection he longed for his entire life.

As Joffrey's sworn shield, Sandor overheard the joking among the court, alerting him to the unconventional relationship between Loras Tyrell and the king's youngest brother. Though he could not say he understood or shared their somewhat unusual appetites, after his own experiences neither would Sandor fault Renly or Loras for seeking such comfort among the backstabbing minions of the court.

If they found more than that in each other, Sandor felt it was no one's business but theirs alone. He made it a point to stay out of the jesting and bullying of the two men. Much to his surprise, so did the always sharp-tongued Jaime Lannister; upon hearing the vulgar remarks of the others the two men often exchanged knowing glances, each feeling their own loneliness gave them a unique perspective on the men.

 _Certainly if the so-called respectable highborn class would see fit to overlook Gregor's raping and murdering women, children, and even Tywin's own weaker soldiers, they could ignore the private goings on of two grown men,_ Sandor figured while at the same time knowing all too well from his own experience how unacceptable any perceived difference would be in court. Such thoughts filled his mind as he spoke to Sansa, and the man was deeply moved that his little bird tried to understand; and in her innocent comments Sandor discovered yet another area in which his beloved wife revealed her seemingly endless amount of compassion.

Drawing Sansa close to his chest, Sandor thinks how grateful he is for all the affection and love his wife shows him. Whether it is her gentle embraces, passionate kisses, holding his hand or brushing the hair from his eyes, she has fulfilled his heart's desire, to love and be loved in return. She is his only need and he hungers for her attentions like a starving man longs for food. Now that he has experienced her love, he will never be able to live without it, without her and Sandor falls asleep thanking the gods for his beloved wife and praying he will never be parted from her.

* * *

A hooting barn owl lands in the rafters of the stables, rousing Sansa from sleep. So vivid, so beautiful was her dream that for a fleeting moment she is not sure where she is. Annoyed by the interruption, Sansa cuddles into Sandor, hoping to quickly return to her dreams.

Sandor was leading her by the hand along the banks of a wide crystalline river, the late afternoon sunlight sparkling amidst the icy waves. Snow-capped peaks shimmered in the distance and the air carried the familiar crisp smell of the north. The sun warmed her face, the feeling in sharp contrast to the chilly air surrounding them and Sansa shivered in response.

Sandor noticed and removed his cloak, wrapping it securely around her. His normally keen gray eyes softened as he grinned at her, resting his large hand against her stomach. When she glanced down to rest her hand over his, Sansa laughed in delight, discovering she was heavy with child. "Enough walking for today, wife," Sandor rasped softly, his scarred mouth twitching into a smile as he steered her back toward a grand two-story log home towering among a picturesque stand of evergreen trees.

The scene changed and Sansa found herself lying in a huge downy feather bed with a massive weirwood frame covered in luxuriant furs. Servants soon brought in hot stones to place at her feet while Sandor stoked the great stone fireplace nearby.

"Come to me, my love," she smiled, beckoning to her husband. Sighing contentedly, Sandor laid down beside her and reached over her body. Sansa followed his hand to a chubby infant nestled between them: a beautiful baby girl with porcelain skin, a head full of Tully red curls and keen gray eyes. "You have given me a most beautiful daughter, wife," Sandor rasps into her ear, the baby cooing at the sound of her father's voice.

"Is this our home?" Sansa asked, dazed by the entire scene. Barking out his familiar laugh, Sandor nuzzled into her hair. "You must have lost more blood than the maester thought if you don't recognize our bedroom. Go to sleep, lass."

Tears welled in her eyes as she smiled up at him. "None of that," Sandor growled softly. "What shall we name the babe?"

"Sarah, after your beloved sister," Sansa answered without hesitation. Sandor swallowed hard before smiling, "Aye, a fine name indeed."

She felt so contented, so very peaceful in that place and then the blamed owl began calling and interrupted her perfect dream. _Was Father trying to share something of their future or was it that Sandor's detailed account of his own that entered her dreams?_   Burrowing down closer to Sandor, she nuzzles into his neck, hoping sleep will soon return.

At her movement, Sandor grumbles slightly in sleep and pulls her closer, his hand gripping her hip possessively. The scratchiness of his beard against her cheek, the feel of his muscular chest against her and the warm masculine scent of him both comforts and arouses her. Unable to resist waking him, Sansa begins placing delicate kisses on the tender skin of his neck below his beard.

"Little bird," he rasps low, his voice thick with slumber. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I am loving you, husband," she murmurs against his skin, brushing the hair away from his neck for better access to his skin.

His rasping laugh rumbles in his chest. "Here? In the blacksmith's loft? Not very highborn of you, lass."

"Husband, you speak truly but it does not matter; I want you here, now," she whispers, brazenly unlacing his breeches.

"And why is that?" he mutters, reaching into her breeches and caressing her hips and bottom.

"I dreamed of you," she says simply, wriggling out of her pants and tunic, then loosening his before taking him in hand.

"Little bird," he sighs as Sansa begins firmly stroking his manhood with both hands. "Gods, woman but you can get a rise out of me faster than anything."

Giggling softly, she moves her hand along his length before guiding him inside her in one strong downward thrust, causing both of them to moan loudly. "Quiet, Little bird," Sandor groans through gritted teeth.

"My love," she gasps when Sandor quickly flips her onto her back, rubbing his length against her wet entrance several times before entering her once more. "Shh, Little bird; if we're going to do this, you must stay quiet," he chuckles low, nibbling on the skin over her hammering pulse.

Holding his face in her hands, Sansa stares deep into his eyes, relishing the raw passion raging within as he loves her.

"Yes, oh yes, my love," Sansa whispers into his hair as he begins moving inside her with the strong fluid motion of his hips. Heatedly matching the rhythmic movement of her hips to his thrusts, it does not take long for both of them to reach their completion. Clutching him tightly, Sansa bites down on his shoulder to muffle her cry of pleasure.

After his breathing returns to normal, Sandor carefully helps her back into her clothes before relacing his breeches. "Seven hells but you're spirited," he chuckles softly, his own eyes reflecting the tender regard he sees in his wife.

"Dearest, I love you; that is all the stimulation I need," she whispers against his mouth, kissing him several times before snuggling down into his arms once more.

* * *

Sandor is awake at dawn, and while allowing Sansa a few extra minutes of sleep, he packs their things and readies the wagon. The loss of his warmth awakens her and soon she is up readying a simple meal of bread, hard yellow cheese, fruit, tea and milk to break their fast. "We'll eat a better meal tonight, love. Perhaps we will come across a more respectable inn to stay in."

Remembering to remain silent, Sansa merely nods, her eyes twinkling at him.

"I was thinking some about your behavior while among the townsfolk. You ought to gesture with your hands when I speak to you; I recall seeing Lord Varys' servants doing such. You know, he only keeps mute servants who were unable to read or write in his quarters, lest someone overhear the Spider's secrets and tell the wrong person."

Frowning, Sansa nods and then slightly flaps her hands in the air while watching Sandor.

"Yes, like the mockingbird, Littlefinger," he laughs, nodding. "You're a smart one."

Grinning, she nods excitedly, happy with the success of her first attempt.

"Also, we're trying to make people think you're a boy, which is hard enough with that sweet face and lush body of yours. You must stay covered up with the fur cloak Elder brother gave you, it's heavy enough to disguise your abundant charms," he winks and grins wickedly at her, causing a deep blush to flood her cheeks. "And no smiling, got it? Men don't smile as much as women and you're supposed to remember your place so only give the barest of glances at people, alright?"

Sansa nods and then takes his hand, kisses it tenderly and rests it on her cheek.

"Yes it would be nice to find a warm bed tonight, it's fucking cold up here," he growls low, brushing the hair from her eyes. "Being with you is softening me up."

Raising her eyebrow suggestively, Sansa shakes her head and looks into his lap, causing Sandor to laugh long and hard at her implication. "Bloody hells I've corrupted you; making bawdy suggestions when you're not even talking now, are you?"

Laughing softly, she nods as the blacksmith comes in to begin work. "Mornin' holy man," he grunts, moving about to get the fires going for the day's work. "Sleep well in the loft?"

"Good enough. Many thanks," Sandor nods, handing him more coin.

"Did you hear noises out here last night? My wife insisted there was foul play afoot."

"Only some raccoons but they didn't disturb us none," Sandor rasps, holding in his laughter with difficulty.

"Glad to hear it. I'll set the dogs in here tonight. Will you all be back later?"

"Might be, if we get all our supplies. If not, I might take the boy to an inn, he looks poor this morning. You got a respectable inn around here?"

Laughing the blacksmith shakes his head. "You stayed in the only respectable place left in Maidenpool last night, septon."

Grunting, Sandor nods and hands the man two more coins. "Then hold our place, will you?"

"Aye, I will at that," the man replies, fingering the stags. "Might want to see Willem in the supply store in the next village over, right before the orchard for your purchases. He's honest and will give you a good price and there are no soldiers to bother with your boy."

"Heard about that, did you?"

Nodding, the blacksmith spits in disgust. "The men around here now are the foulest louts you're like to come across. You're welcome to store your things here for the night with what you just gave me, I'll fix a lock for you as well."

"Thanks again," Sandor replies, then offers his hand to the man. "I was once a knight before I converted; I can guard my purchases well enough but a lock would be most appreciated."

"Glad to do it; it'll keep you and the boy safer, that," the blacksmith grunts. "Jon's a fine boy and respects his elders; he don't deserve the men around here botherin' him. Give him some honeyed ale before bed, that'll set him aright. If that don't work my wife makes elderberry syrup that should set him up nicely."

"I'll do just that. See you tonight," Sandor says, gesturing for Sansa to climb into the wagon.

After an hour's travel they reach the sleepy little village and promptly locate the supply store. Sandor finds Willem to be just as blacksmith described: fair and both eager to please and make a large sale. In several hours' time, the couple manages to complete the shopping for the village and Willem offers to store their supplies while they enjoy a meal.

With Sansa by his side, Sandor feels far more relaxed in this environment than Maidenpool. A brief look around town tells him there are far fewer people, mostly just a few older villagers. As far as he can see there are no Lannister soldiers, brothels or wine sinks to be had and the sole dining establishment is in reality just a private home set up with long tables for guests.

The stout elderly woman running the place approaches as they enter the dining area, smiling and wiping her hands on her apron. "I'm Annie. Would ya be likin' a table, septon?"

"Yes, preferably one toward the back, facing the door."

Sizing up the large man in front of her, Annie nods. "You was a soldier before a holy man, I'll wager. I've got just the spot. You and the boy come along now."

Seating them next to the window, the elderly lady turns the table facing the door as Sandor requested. "We got beefsteak, lamb stew, cheese, baked apples, porridge, brown ale and for the boy, milk."

"Bring two of everything, milady," Sandor grunts, settling himself in the small dining room chair. "Here's a bit to bring it to the table faster and more where that came from if there's lemoncakes to be had."

"Aye, I baked a batch this morn for my grandson. They're all yours, good septon," she grins, biting the coin.

"Leave some for your boy; a plate will do us fine."

Hurriedly the woman returns with her grandson, both loaded down with steaming dishes. The delicious aroma immediately sets Sansa's mouth to watering and Sandor chuckles watching his wife greedily eying the plate of lemoncakes before her.

"Many thanks," Sandor nods, handing the boy a coin. "Dig in, boy," he rasps with a laugh.

Sansa, ever the proper lady, daintily begins slicing her lemoncake into quarters. "No, no, Little bird," he whispers. "Eat like a man; like you've seen me eat."

Nodding, she picks up the lemoncake with her hands and shoves the entire pastry in her mouth, wiping off the crumbs with the back of her hand and sending Sandor into fits of laughter. "That's the way," he grins approvingly.

The meal passes by pleasantly with Sandor and Sansa eating their fill, talking of plans to speak to Elder brother about staying on at the Quiet Isle once they return from the trip. Sansa sits with her back to the dining room, nodding and smiling at his words, carefully making gestures as necessary for communication.

A large group of men enter the dining room, quickly transforming Sandor's easygoing demeanor into his typical guarded countenance once more. "Good afternoon, septon!" The oldest man calls, raising his tankard in Sandor's direction.

"Afternoon. What's the word?" Sandor rasps politely, his strained attempt at civility threatening to make Sansa laugh.

"A wedding, septon, that promises to bind two of the finest and oldest houses in Westeros. Heard it from my lord this morning."

"Oh, yes?" Sandor asks disinterestedly. "Which ones will be joining?"

"House Frey will join House Tully in a moon's turn. Edmure Tully will take Roselyn Frey to wife to appease old Walder for Robb Stark's folly. It should patch things up nicely."

Sandor watches Sansa's eyes grow huge but she says nothing, merely tugs at her cloak. Her husband catches the reference and asks, "Where will the wedding take place? I'd guess Riverrun, as it is the seat of the groom."

"Aye, you'd think so, but no; it is to be held at the Twins. Odd indeed, I'd say; the bedding will take place at the seat of the bride's father, most unusual. Word is to accommodate the Young Wolf himself; it is said he will attend with Lady Catelyn of House Stark, Lord Eddard's widow. It will be a fine thing to see that rift mended and such bodes well for all of us."

"Indeed," Sandor rasps, raising his mug to the man while watching Sansa's reaction. "The Seven bless the couple and their houses."

"The Seven bless the couple and their houses," everyone in the room chimes in, after the Southern tradition of repeating a septon of the Seven's blessing. Visibly paling, Sansa lowers her eyes to her cup, her knuckles whitening in a tight grip but still she says nothing.

Annie returns and hands several packages of neatly packed food to Sandor. "For your trip, septon. Would you allow me a blessing? I have the coin."

"You made us a fine meal; consider the blessing my thanks," Sandor says.

"Won't ya make the sign o'the Seven over me, brother?" Annie asks, puzzled.

Coughing, Sansa touches her forehead and chest, reminding Sandor of the way Elder brother gestured over them before they left. Making the sign of the Seven pointed star, Sandor roughly barks, "The Seven bless and keep you."

"Thank you, septon. May the Seven go with you and yours."

"Many thanks," Sandor replies awkwardly and when Sansa glances his way she notices he is gritting his teeth, all the while his face colors clear to the neck of his tunic.

Once they are outside, Sansa cannot suppress her laughter. "Fuck, Little bird. Buggering old lady, asking me of all people for a blessing," he grumbles, roughly tugging at his hooded cloak. "Lucky we didn't get struck by lightning."

Smiling, Sansa nods, her eyes twinkling with fun. "About the Young Wolf," he coughs, dragging the toe of his boot in circles in the dirty street. "You want to go to the Twins? I'll take you to him, if you wish it. We can leave once we deliver our load to the Quiet Isle."

Frowning, Sansa shakes her head and draws a line across her throat, indicating they will speak of it later as she climbs into the wagon.

* * *

When they return to Maidenpool, the town is alive and crawling with Lannister soldiers. "Reinforcements to search for the Imp," Sandor mutters, scowling as they ride the heavily packed wagon through the town. Raising her eyebrows, Sansa seeks his eyes questioningly. "Aye, I was wondering the same thing. I, too, wouldn't mind getting out on the road but we will lose the sun in a few hours from now so it's better if we stay here. We can hide at the blacksmith's."

Nodding, Sansa ties her scarf over the lower portion of her face, obscuring all but her eyes. "So, the septon with the pretty boy are back at last," one soldier staggers over to the wagon. "I've struck out with these whores."

"Not enough coin for the wenches, is that it? What did you do with what I gave you?"

"Drank and gambled it up, septon. Can you spare any more or mayhaps sell me the boy?"

"The boy isn't for sale. You best move on; I'll give you a bit more," Sandor growls low, tossing the coin into the dirty street. "That buys our privacy, got it? No more interruptions from you men or I might just forget my vows."

"Ser, you remind me of the man I used to squire for; Sandor Clegane was his name. You ever heard of him?" Brad Lannister says, walking out of the inn and watching the soldier scramble for the coin.

"Aye, I heard of the man. Buried him, too."

"You buried Sandor Clegane?"

"The Hound, as was. You men need not worry about him anymore."

Stunned disbelief fills the man's face. "The Hound is dead…that information should fetch a favor or two in King's Landing. Who killed him?"

"The Hound died from an old wound."

"Bet he got it at Blackwater," one of the other soldiers commented darkly. "I saw him fight that night. He cut through the Baratheon soldiers like they were made of sand. I never saw one man kill so many."

"First Gregor, now Sandor," whistles Brad. "Hard to imagine they are both gone."

Clearing his throat, Sandor nods gravely. "Your men are on the Quiet Isle searching for the Imp as we speak for murdering the king. Have any of you men seen any sign of Tyrion Lannister in these parts?"

"No, not yet. The extra soldiers you see about were sent in preparation for the King's funeral, keeping the Kingsroad clear of thieves and vagrants at the Queen Regent's orders."

"How good of her; her subjects will be most grateful," Sandor hisses, barely concealing his rage. "What news of King's Landing?"

"The place is a madhouse preparing of King Joffrey's funeral. All the major houses loyal to the Iron throne are attending."

What else, you say?" Sandor asks, observing the man is drunk and likely to offer more details.

"Oh, and Queen Cersei gave Haranhall to Lord Baelish for allying our family with the Tyrells. After the funeral he will be traveling to stake his claim. No doubt Lord Baelish intends on resuming the search for the Stark girl; the man is obsessed and cannot accept she is dead."

Sansa gasps at this information but Sandor coughs deeply, covering for her. "Hmm, grief does strange things to people," Sandor comments, his voice devoid of emotion and Sansa recognizes the tone well from their days in the Red Keep. "Thank you for the news. If we see Tyrion we'll send for you. Remember my words; that coin buys my solitude this evening."

Sansa touches her forehead and then her chest and so Sandor makes the sign of the Seven over the soldiers.

"Many thanks, septon," Brad calls, waving as the couple departs from the square.

"Good gods, Sandor," Sansa chokes out once the blacksmith leaves, pacing back and forth and wringing her hands. "Robb and Mother are going to the Twins for the wedding? Just hearing those words gives me a sinking feeling."

"Aye, it doesn't sound good. Should we make for the Twins?" Sandor offers again, carefully watching his distressed wife. Frowning, Sansa closes her eyes and remains silent for several long moments. "No," she finally whispers. "I feel such dread at the idea; perhaps Father does not wish it. What say you?"

"I think the Starks should stay as far away from the bloody Freys as possible, for all their 'joining of families' nonsense. Liars one and all; they cannot be trusted."

"I feel the same way, too," she says sadly. "But Sandor, I just know even if we went to Robb he and Mother would be far more preoccupied with our marriage than listening to our warnings. I…I hardly can explain it myself. I confess I do not know what to do."

Sandor tries to hide his relief at Sansa's words. "Call to your Father, lass. He will answer, as he did before, believe that. It worked with Gregor," he shrugs, biting into an apple.

"Yes, yes I will do that very thing. Would you…consider also calling to him?" Sansa asks weakly, reaching for his hand. "In my dreams, Father always tells me to stay with you, that you are family as well. If you do not wish it, I understand," she hurriedly adds, looking down at their entwined fingers.

Though Sandor has never kept any gods, he finds it impossible to deny his beautiful little bird anything, especially when her eyes are filled with such hope. Tilting her chin up to him, he gazes into her eyes and grins at her. "Aye wife, you know I'd do damn near anything for you."

Smiling broadly, Sansa impulsively throws her arms around him. "Oh thank you, husband! You are so good to me; this greatly puts my mind at ease."

"Careful girl; the blacksmith is still around and the way you look in those breeches is mighty tempting."

Sansa hurriedly moves away from him all the while smiling shyly, earning a barking laugh from her husband. "Perhaps later, then," she whispers, blushing.

"Later, then," he answers hoarsely, staring at her with all his might.

That night as they prepare for bed, each of them silently calls to Eddard for guidance, after which the couple falls into a deep, dreamless sleep. "I do not understand it, Sandor," Sansa grumbles, disappointed, the following morning as they leave Maidenpool behind them.

"Patience, lass. He'll come to us when the time is right, just as before. If there is no reply, we'll talk to Elder brother about it when we reach the Quiet Isle, alright?"

"Yes, I will try to be patient," Sansa agrees, patting his leg. Raising his head, Sandor inhales the sharp clean smell of the air. "Storm's on the way."

The words no more than leave his mouth and a sudden snowstorm bears down over the land. "Winter is coming for us all," Sansa says thoughtfully, watching the fat snowflakes descending upon them.

"We cannot stop and make camp with this load, Sansa; we'll have to push through to the cabin."

"I do not mind," she smiles, moving closer to him covering the both of them in furs.

Late in the evening, the couple reaches the brother's cabin. After unloading the supplies, Sandor hastily builds a fire while Sansa prepares their bedding and evening meal in front of the fireplace.

Exhausted, the couple eats in haste, eager to burrow under the warm furs. Stripping out of their wet clothes, they nestle in each other's arms, reveling in the pleasurable warmth of their nude bodies pressed together under the blankets. With her soft skin against his, Sandor cannot resist making love to his little bird and afterward it does not take long for sleep overtakes the weary couple, the crackling of the fireplace the only sound as the snow falls outside.


	36. Surrounded by Lions

After the second phase of the moon, the loss of his wife's warmth stirs Sandor from sleep. Rubbing his eyes, he glances around and finds Sansa sitting on the hearth drinking moon tea, her deep auburn glowing in the dying firelight.

Shivering, Sansa pulls the large neckline of his tunic close around her shoulders but only succeeds in exposing far more of her lovely body than the garment covers. Absently she feeds kindling to the flame with a small frown furrowing her brow, seemingly deep in thought.

When Sandor sits upright Sansa starts at the sudden movement. "What is it, wife?" Wrapping one of the furs around him, he moves to sit beside her and gathers her close in his arms. "Did your father come to you?"

Sadly, she shakes her head and pulls his arm around her middle, burying her face into the soft hollow of his neck. "No, he did not. I...I just had a very strange dream. It was very vivid like the others but I do not believe it was Father."

"Oh, yes? Tell me about it."

Sighing, she nods. "Alright. I was outside and looking down from the trees at this very cabin and it was surrounded by male lions-young ones, I could tell from the shaggy mane. They looked just like the young lions Arya and I saw once at a traveling show Father took the family to see in Wintertown."

"And what were the lions doing outside our cabin?"

"They were trying to get in but Maiden and Stranger blocked their way and a huge black hound guarded the door."

"Not a very hard dream to explain, lass. So you'd have me believe the Lannister soldiers are on their way here?"

"That is just it; I do not know," Sansa concedes apprehensively. "It seems obvious that is what it means but it would be foolish to take every dream I have literally, Sandor. Last week I dreamed of a huge plate of lemoncakes."

Brushing her hair away from her face, Sandor raises his eyebrow. "You got a plate full, too, not a sennight later at that. Maybe it's not as foolish as you think."

Sansa shrugs, "Maybe…but that night we also ate a lot of food before we went to bed and perhaps that was it. I do have a terrible sweet tooth."

"That must be it," he asserts, noticing her pensive expression.

"I…I haven't shared this before with you but when my dreams are the kind everyone has, they are hazy and I feel, I don't know…separated from them in a way, like I am watching it all happening from a distance. But when I dream about Father or our future, I live each and every detail. Last night I dreamed of our log home and it was much as you described from your own daydreams in King's Landing except that I experienced it. Does that make sense?"

Sighing, Sandor slowly shrugs. "Bugger me, I don't know. How so? Tell me how you experience the dream."

Sansa settles back against him, running her hands over his forearms. "Well…the dream started with us beside a beautiful river in the far north; I could tell by the smell in the air. As we were walking, I felt the warmth of the late afternoon sunshine on my face, so much so that I felt my cheeks turning pink from sunburn. A late afternoon breeze came up and I shivered from the sudden cold. You leaned down and gave me your cloak and I could feel its texture; it was black bearskin and very heavy, I could barely manage it. When you rested your hand against my stomach, I felt the warmth of your touch against my skin much as I do now."

"What else, love?" He murmurs into the crown of her hair, striving to hide the surge of emotions her words have brought to his heart. _The daydreams I had in the Red Keep-was it a glimpse into the future? Is it possible all of those things will come true for us one day?_

"The next thing I recall, I was in a huge feather bed and oh, it was so warm and cozy! I sunk down into it and burrowed under the soft red and white fox fur blankets while you added more wood to the fireplace. When you came and lay down beside me, you reached over and…"

Sansa stifles a sob and then pauses and wipes the tears from her cheeks. Sandor lifts her chin so she will face to him. "And what, Little bird?"

"And there was our infant daughter snuggled down between us…and she was beautiful, Sandor! She was a chubby little thing with red curls and your beautiful gray eyes and when she looked up at me, I felt her presence in my soul. She was part of me, a part of _us_. When you spoke, she cooed at the sound of your voice and I could _feel_   her love for you."

"Bloody hells, Sansa," Sandor mutters, rubbing his hands over his face to hide his own tears. "From your mouth to the gods' ears, lass, that we'll have a babe such as her. I never believed much in the gods, you know that…but since Gregor and those bloody wolves and your dreams…"

"I understand," Sansa whispers while pulling him closer. "It is very difficult for you. Sometimes you believe and other times you do not."

Grinning at her, Sandor laughs. "Aye, true enough, that." Sighing, he nods. "Sansa, it's tough for me to know one way or the other. But…a babe with your red hair might be the one thing that changes my mind for good," he whispers against her lips and then brushes away the tears from her cheeks. Clearing his throat, he growls, "You mention that again and I'll swear on the Seven hells I didn't say it."

Sansa laughs in spite of her emotion. "Your secret is safe with me, my love."

Frowning, he turns her face toward him once more. "Speaking of our pups, have you been keeping up with this since we left the Quiet Isle?" Sandor asks, gesturing at the tea cup.

"Yes, of course love. I brought it along, just in case," she smiles, blushing.

"Have you ever thought you might be…?" Sandor coughs, looking away from her.

"No, oh, no! I would never drink it if I suspected I was with child. As much as I understand the need to avoid starting a family now, you must believe if I thought I was with child, I would not risk it."

"Good," he says, patting her leg. "That's what I hoped."

"If a baby comes, even if it is not at the most opportune time, I'll be very happy. I cannot wait to have our children," Sansa slowly kisses him while twisting a lock of his hair between her fingers.

Pleased, Sandor grins at her and pulls her close. "Aye love, me too. If that time comes I'll keep the both of you safe and well cared for, you know that."

"I do know it," she smiles, tweaking his chin. "But we'll do our best to wait, so you need not worry if I am drinking the tea."

Raising his eyebrow at her, he asks, "What do you want to do about the dream you had just now?"

"I don't know," she says doubtfully while twisting the hem of his tunic in her hands.

 _Fuck me; she probably wants to leave right now in the middle of the night._ "Sansa, it's bloody cold out there," he says, watching her face. "Tell me truly, do you sense we should leave for the Quiet Isle right now?"

Shaking her head, she snuggles against him. "Oh, it is so nice and warm here, Sandor…it's the middle of the night and I…"

Sandor barks out a laugh. "You mean you don't want to sit that pretty bottom of yours back in that gods forsaken wagon. Come back to bed, then," he growls in her ear, carrying her back to the furs.

* * *

Sansa awakens in the pitch black cabin to a hand clamped firmly over her mouth. Panic washes over her and she struggles until her eyes focus and recognizes it is her husband.

"Shh, Little bird, it's me," Sandor's hoarse voice whispers into Sansa's ear. "Forgive me wife but I couldn't risk you making noise. The soldiers are here." Placing her clothes in her lap, he slowly moves his hand away. "Hurry, dress."

Nodding, she quickly pulls on her tunic and breeches while she watches Sandor strap on his fighting knife and short sword. When he finishes, he glances over at her and she nods to indicate she is ready. Outside Sansa hears Stranger and Maiden trumpeting and stomping around the back of the cabin.

The men make catcalls and laugh, taking turns pelting the door with stones. "Come on out, boy. We've come for you, don't be shy. We'll pay you real good septon, just hand him over and no one will get hurt."

Listening to their taunts, Sansa fearfully watches Sandor's eyes darken into a black rage, his jaw clenching along with his grip on the hilt of his greatsword. Raising his fingers to his lips, he motions for her to hide behind the door and Sansa hurries over and takes her place.

"Lock the door behind me," Sandor whispers, throwing the septon robe over his shoulders before taking her hand and kissing it. She gives him a tremulous smile and crouches low to the floor, hugging her knees.

Jerking open the door, Sandor ducks out on the porch and sees four Lannister soldiers from the village surround the cabin with one man on horseback. "Struck out with the wenches last night, did you?"

"I had one," the soldier Sandor recognizes as Brad Lannister says. "But she wasn't as pretty as that boy with you. Hand him over, septon."

"Well, you offered to pay. What's he worth to you?" Sandor asks, stepping closer to the first man and holding out his hand.

"Got the coin right here," he says, tossing Sandor the money pouch.

"Alright, then; you first," Sandor nods to the cabin while pretending to count the coins.

Smirking, the young man turns back to the other men. "See, I told you it couldn't hurt to ask polite," he says just as Sandor grabs him by the neck and slides his blade through his throat.

The stunned soldiers are too busy watching the gurgling man writhing on the ground to act. Sandor wastes no time hurling his fighting knife at the soldier on horseback, the blade catching the young man squarely in the base of his neck as he whirls his horse around to escape.

The remaining two men rush toward him, and Sandor parries with Brad before grabbing the other by his cloak. Shouting ferociously, Sandor twists the helpless man to block Brad's sword, whose blade rips into his fellow soldier's abdomen. Panting, Sandor shrugs off the septon's robes, revealing his face to the man.

"Don't you remember anything I taught you, boy? Never show your opponent your next move."

"The Hound!" Brad gasps, stepping backward.

"I bet you wish now you'd let us alone, don't you? I warned you, you stupid buggering bastard!" Sandor snarls, advancing toward him. "Throw down your sword and I'll give you a clean death."

"But…but I thought you said the Hound was dead," Brad shouts as Sandor brings his blade crashing down on him, the man barely managing to deflect his blow.

"If I was still the Hound, I'd pull out your guts and leave you here for the wolves to finish for threatening to rape my wife," Sandor rasps, circling around the young man.

"Wife?"

"Aye, wife. Throw down the sword."

"Hound, please don't kill me. You can ransom me," the young man begins, throwing down his sword. "The queen will pay whatever you ask, I swear it."

Snarling out a harsh laugh, Sandor kicks him in the ribs, sending him sprawling into the dirt. "Cersei wouldn't give her own spit to save you. You think because she lets you fuck her she gives a red piss about you?"

"Hound, you must believe, I…I didn't know that she was your wife dressed as a boy…or I would never-"

"I dressed her as a boy thinking you men would let her be," Sandor backhands him, the brutal blow sending Brad to the ground once more. "I see now that was folly; you wanted a rape and a man who does such doesn't care whether he uses a man or woman as long as it satisfies his want."

"But I was your squire! Your…your brother does such, too. Would you react this way if I had wanted a woman?"

"It just so happens the last man who threatened to rape my wife was Gregor," Sandor snarls, a wicked laugh escaping him. "Anyone seen _him_   lately?"

"You…you killed him? Tywin, I mean-we thought you-"

"Enough talk. Time for you to leave this world," Sandor growls, dragging him over to a fallen log.

"No wait, please-" the young man's cries are silenced as Sandor brings the full weight of his greatsword across his neck with such force the blade firmly lodges into the bark beneath him.

"Bloody coward," Sandor spits on the body before turning back to the cabin.

Slowly Sansa opens the door and peers warily outside. "It's alright, they're dead. You might not want to come out here, though. I made a mess of them."

Sandor notices his wife's expression turn into a look of cold fear as she takes in his gore spattered appearance, her gaze eventually reaching his eyes. "Are you…alright?" Sansa asks weakly, cautiously stepping out on to the porch.

Looking down, he notices his sword is covered in blood. _She sees the Hound,_   he realizes dejectedly, and in that moment recognizes that Sansa both loves and fears him, much as he felt about Gregor before he held his face in the fire. Sandor knows it is the result of the countless times he scared her in King's Landing and not for the first time the man berates himself for his drunken behavior toward her. He wishes he had the words to reassure her but understands only tempering his anger and time will heal this rift between them.

Turning away from her, he struggles to still the blood lust he feels coursing through his body. Sinking down on a stump furthest from the fallen men, he busies himself with wiping off the blade of his sword. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sansa creeping a little closer. "Little bird, you need not fear me. I know I'm a sight but I'm alright. Come on, lass," he waves her over to him, softening his voice.

Sansa slowly walks over to him, a small smile slowly appearing on her face. "You are not injured?"

"No, wife."

"I'll bring some water in to heat so you can clean up."

"No time to wait for that. We have to load up our things and get out of here."

"But…what about them?" She asks, gesturing to the dead soldiers. "If we leave them out in the open, more Lannister men are sure to track them here and then follow us back to the Quiet Isle."

"Well, I'm sure as hell not burying them," he grunts, spitting on the rag and scrubbing the blade. "They don't deserve it. Let the animals take care of them."

"Maybe…" Sansa begins uncertainly. "Maybe we could tie them to their horses and bring them back to the septry to their own men. If we say we saw them dead near the cabin we won't be lying and the Lannister soldiers at the sept will think they were ambushed along the road."

Grinning mischievously, Sandor nods. "Seven hells, you're a clever one; I'm sorry I didn't think of that myself. I've corrupted you for sure," he barks out a laugh, amused to hear his wife planning to cover up his killing and yet worry about lying in the same sentence.

"Wolves and dogs are not so very different," she smiles, and Sandor is relieved to see the tension has left her face. "But you must clean up or your appearance will give us away."

"Once I have them packed on their horses, I'll wipe down my mail and then jump in the creek. This plan better work if I have to freeze my balls off in that water," he grumbles, eliciting a long laugh from his wife.

Within the hour Sandor has the men tied to their horses and the wagon packed and ready. Sansa tidies up the cabin to the sound of Sandor's shouts and swearing in the icy water outside, unable to suppress her laughter.

"You'd better get naked, woman. I'm going to need some warming up," he growls at her when he comes back inside and she obliges, removing her clothes and wrapping the furs around his shivering body. Holding him close, she runs her hands over his skin to warm him, a peaceful silence falling over them as they huddle before the dying fire.

"You mustn't fear me, Sansa," she hears him rasp low after a while. "No matter how long it takes, I'll prove that I won't hurt you. I swear it on every one of your gods."

"My heart knows you won't, but when I see you that way…I cannot help but be afraid."

"It's my own doing; I shouldn't have grabbed you and scared you in King's Landing, damn it," he mutters. "If I could take it back, I would."

"Why did you say the Hound is dead?" Sansa whispers against his chest. She has wondered about it ever since she heard him say it to the soldiers in Maidenpool and she was surprised he repeated the sentiment to Brad Lannister.

"The Hound from King's Landing is dead, Sansa. I buried him on the Quiet Isle when I said our wedded vows before Elder brother. My days of drinking myself into a bloody stupor in brothels are long gone. I meant what I said: that angry man who pinched your chin and mocked you is dead and buried. Right after our first wedding I scared you; I won't make the same mistake after the second."

Sansa only nods, pulling him still closer to her. Sighing, he runs his finger along her jaw line, gently tilting her face up to him. "I needed to do it for both our sakes and for the sake of our pups," Sandor rasps low. "That doesn't mean I won't gut any bastard that tries to hurt us but the Hound exists only to protect his family now."

"I am grateful you wish to do this for me and our children but Sandor, please do it for yourself first, my love," Sansa looks deep into his eyes, caressing the burned side of his face. "You wore the Hound like armor to protect yourself in King's Landing just as I wore my courtesy and chirped my septa's words. I understand better than anyone how such a thing becomes second nature but Sandor, you are not that man. Deep down you never were or you would not have saved me. You have suffered the Hound more than anyone, so let him go for yourself, my love."

"Aye," he agrees with a smile, gently kissing her. "As much as I would like to spend the day this way, it's time we get out of here. At least the cold will keep the men."

Quickly the couple dresses, after which Sansa douses the fire and Sandor harnesses the horses. The travel back to the Quiet Isle is slow going, made even more so by the soldier's horses tied to Maiden and Stranger's leads.

A light snowfall begins as the couple finally reaches the septry late that evening. Pulling rein on the horses, Sandor notices the Lannister soldiers lay strewn about near the garden, laughing and throwing dice to while away the time. Upon hearing the wagon, Elder brother, Septon Meribald and Brother McCann come out of the sept, eager to see the couple.

"We got everything you asked for, Septon Meribald," Sansa smiles as Elder brother helps her down out of the wagon.

"And a few things you didn't," Sandor chuckles, pointing to the soldier's horses. The Lannister soldiers quickly recognize their lord's sigil on the tack and hurry over.

"What happened here?" Captain Manderly asks while his pages begin untying the bodies. "Who are these men?"

"We never did meet 'em. Edric found 'em not far from the resting stop," Sansa frowns, shaking her head sadly.

"Where the soldiers at the cabin?"

"Weren't staying there, it seemed. Found 'em dead in the yard and it didn't look like we missed the fight by much." Sandor replies with a nod. "The corpses are fresh; the animals hadn't even got to 'em yet."

"Indeed they are," Elder brother comments darkly while examining the bodies laid out on the ground. "It looks as though they were killed quite brutally, perhaps early this morning. Did you see anyone around the cabin?"

"No, Elder brother. I scouted some around the place but I never did see anyone."

"These are dangerous times for everyone." Sighing, Septon Meribald glances at Captain Manderly, "You should have your men bury these soldiers here. They won't hold the trip to King's Landing, not even in the cold. We have graves dug already you may use."

"Agreed," the Captain nodded. "It will save us time."

"Captain Manderly! This young soldier here, he's a Lannister!" One young soldier shouts, holding up a lion sigil pin.

The captain squats down, looking the young man in the face. "Yes, this would be Brad Lannister. It seems we came to the Quiet Isle looking for one Lannister and ended up finding another. We'll need to bring him back to the queen."

"I can prepare the body and pack it with herbs and aloes that will help keep it for the trip. It may snow more overnight also, so the temperature of the weather is in your favor," Elder brother offers.

"Alright; make it so, Elder brother," Captain Manderly declares. "You men, help the Elder Brother. We'll need the body ready by morning so we can return him to King's Landing forthwith."

"I will need Brother McCann's skill as well," Elder brother replies and Septon Meribald gestures his assent. "Brother Digger, Sarah, please retire to your quarters and bathe in very hot water with lavender sprigs added to it. Use plenty of lavender soap since you both have come in contact with the dead. We will settle with the supplies tomorrow."

"You men unload this cargo at once," Captain Manderly commands, waving the soldiers toward the wagon.

After returning the leftover coin to Septon Meribald, Sandor and Sansa return to their cabin to find their large wooden tub brimming with steaming lavender-scented water.

"Oh Sandor-just look at that!" Sansa squeals while quickly shedding her clothing, all modesty forgotten with the promise of a hot bath.

"Just try and stop me," he growls while climbing into the tub after her and pulling her onto his lap.

"Why do you suppose Elder brother insisted we take a hot bath with lavender?" Sansa asks as she studiously scrubs Sandor's back.

"Death and decay always carries disease, Little bird; you didn't know that?"

"No, I never really learned about such things in the north. At Winterfell it was never warm enough to bury our dead. The ground remains frozen and so our dead are buried in crypts. It is so cold I doubt there is much decay. I never saw any death at all until the tourney."

"Aye, I suppose you wouldn't have, lass," he says, turning her around so he can wash her hair.

After they bathe and dress, the couple sits on the hearth sharing a simple meal of dried meat, cheese, bread and butter when their meal is interrupted by a loud knock on the door.


	37. A Desire to Change

The loud knock comes a second time. Growling, Sandor unsheathes his sword. "What in Seven hells is it now? They're too many damn people nosing around this place." Giggling, Sansa nods as she quickly steps into her gown. "We were preparing for bed. Please, allow us a moment," she calls, tying on her lacings in haste. When he sees she is dressed, Sandor jerks open the door to see Elder brother.

"Sandor, Sansa; forgive me, I did not mean to startle the two of you," he smiles, nodding to Sansa and noting the scowl on Sandor's face. "I know it is very late to receive visitors. Did the both of you use the lavender soap I left here?"

"Oh, yes, Elder brother it was so lovely," Sansa smiles. "I know you use it for maestering but I would enjoy having some as well. It also seemed to ease the pains I have from riding in the wagon."

"That pretty backside of yours wasn't meant to spend its days bumping along on that bloody driftwood seat," Sandor grins, mischievously winking at her as he gestures for Elder brother to sit down.

Frowning, Sansa shakes her head at him as she pours Elder brother a cup of tea, her stern expression earning a sharp laugh from her husband. Ignoring Sandor's suggestive comment, Elder brother clears his throat and sits down.

"We were just supping before bed. Would you like a slice of cheese or perhaps an apple?" Sansa offers, setting a plate before him.

"No my dear, thank you," he says. "As for the soap, the recipe is quite simple; if you wish I would be happy to teach you how to make it, Lady Sansa."

"Yes, I would so much like to learn. If I do well enough I will make sure you always have a supply on hand here." Smiling, Sansa glances at Sandor, who she sees is pensively waiting for the holy man to get around to the purpose of his late night visit.

"What an unexpected pleasure having you here. What brings you to us this evening?" She offers pleasantly, knowing her husband's patience is reaching its limit.

"I have finished preparing Brad Lannister's body," he begins, watching Sandor closely. "Brother McCann is attending the others as we speak and I must return to him shortly. However, I have some news that will not keep until morning."

 _What the fuck is it now?_ Sandor keeps his thoughts to himself and only grunts in response, running his whetstone across the blade of his katar while Sansa watches her husband anxiously. "I am sure the captain will be most glad to hear you were able to finish so quickly. I would have thought such a process would take longer, though admittedly I have no knowledge of the subject."

"I am most glad to hear it, my lady; such is not the providence of highborn women. Actually it was not so very complex, as the men seemed to die cleanly and by the stroke of the same weapon." Sandor continues scraping the whetstone against the blade, silent and brooding.

After glancing at Sandor, Elder brother continues. "Most unfortunate incident, most unfortunate; upon closer examination it seems the young man was slashed and finally decapitated by a greatsword, of all things."

Snorting, Sandor shrugs, "Aye, what of it? Shows the killer is a fine swordsman, nothing more."

Sansa apprehensively glances between the two men. "Is such an unusual manner of death, Elder brother? My father carried his greatsword Ice and many of his bannermen also carry them, as I recall. Perhaps the use of such a weapon would suggest the killer is of the north."

"I am sure under most circumstances would be a fair conclusion, Lady Sansa. The Northmen are known to be considerably taller in stature than men from, say, Tyrosh or Pentos. However here in the south, aside from a few _Westermen_ , there is not one man in a hundred large enough to wield such a weapon, let alone skilled enough to use one in battle."

"For fuck's sake, if you've got something on your mind holy man, why don't you just get to the point rather than buggering around with word games? I don't want to jaw the night away after such a trip," Sandor spits out venomously, glaring at the man.

"Do you believe you know the identity of the man who killed Brad Lannister?" Sansa asks, struggling to hide her distress.

"Little bird, don't," Sandor growls at her. Abashed, Sansa lowers her eyes. "Are you asking me if I killed him?" Sandor barks, stepping closer, staring into Elder brother's eyes with such vehemence the man recoils a moment before saying, " _Did_ you kill him, Sandor?"

"Aye, I killed him and the rest of those soldiers, too. I'd do it again in a heartbeat," he sneers, setting down the katar and whetstone on the table in front of the holy man. "All you had to do was ask."

"Tell me what happened, Sandor; I know you must have a good reason. Please believe I will accept your answer with an open mind," Elder brother says quietly.

"When we reached Maidenpool those buggering fools staggered out of the brothel they call an inn over there and approached the wagon, brazen as anything. I tried shooing them off but they had their sights on the Little bird."

"Oh, then you were no longer dressed as a boy, my dear?" Noticing Sandor's menacing look he hastily adds, "Pray forgive me, I do not wish to attribute any wrongdoing to you. It matters not how you were dressed; I am only curious."

"Aye, she was at that. Bundled up in that fur cloak you gave her, too. Dressing her as a lad wasn't any deterrent; in fact those sick bastards seemed more attracted to her believing she was a boy. Bloody rapists," Sandor curses, spitting on the ground in disgust.

"Lady Sansa, I am very sorry," Elder brother murmurs, shaking his head. "I am afraid war brings out the very worst in men."

Trembling, Sansa nods, averting her eyes and Sandor responds by wrapping his arm around her waist and watching her intently. "That's not even the half of it. We had to stay in the blacksmith's loft just to avoid them; the man even put a lock on the door the second night. The whole bloody town knows about these men." Pausing, Sandor draws a deep breath, struggling to still his fury.

"On our way here we discovered early the next morning they followed us back to the cabin," Sansa adds with another shudder, causing Sandor to draw her close in his arms.

"I'll finish telling him, wife; I...I stopped you earlier because I won't have you sully your mouth by speaking of such filth," Sandor growls, slamming his fist on the table and startling both Sansa and Elder brother. "You've dealt with more than your share of their kind in your young life," Sandor adds more gently.

Patting his arm, Sansa leans into him and nods quietly, understanding his rage at the peasants who attacked her seeped into the situation with the soldiers. _After the way he found me in King's Landing, those soldiers never stood a chance,_ she shivers involuntarily. _Sandor views all of them the same and dealt with them in a similar way._

"Those men surrounded the cabin, offering money and our lives if I would hand over the 'boy'. So, I gave them what they had coming; better than they deserved, even. Seven hells, no man threatens to rape my wife and lives to tell it, you best believe that."

"The Hound is dead," Sansa whispers without thinking, remembering the way Sandor sliced through the man in question with frightening ease just as he did the three peasant men not three months earlier.

"Aye," Sandor answers softly, stroking her arm. "That he is, wife."

Elder brother nods gravely. "So, it would seem Sansa's husband did the killing, not the Hound. Am I to understand you have…faced a similar situation in the past where you needed to protect your wife?"

Sandor nods, pulling Sansa still closer to his chest. "Aye, those bastards aren't the first to try such with her and the others ended up the same as the soldiers, believe that."

Elder brother nods gravely. "Sandor, by Sansa's words it seems you have left off the Hound…he is figuratively dead?"

"I put that away when you wed us, damn it! Otherwise those men would have gotten much worse. I would have gutted those bastards and let the animals finish them and left whatever remained as a warning to any other bloody rapists in the area," Sandor rasps low.

Shuddering at his words, Sansa thinks back over their time in King's Landing. The people Sandor killed: Mycah, the knight during Joff's nameday celebration, the peasants who assaulted her and she cannot remember an instance when Sandor did not give his opponent a quick-though not always clean-death. During their travels he always killed efficiently and despite his hatred for his brother he even gave Gregor a clean death, putting him out of his misery after Nymeria tore into him.

While Sansa wonders at his words, she is suddenly pulled out of her thoughts by her husband hugging her close once more. "I don't mean to scare you, wife," he whispers low enough that Elder brother cannot hear him. Silently she strokes his arm at her waist. "I know."

Sighing, Elder brother taps his fingers lightly on the table. "I am pleased you trust me enough to tell me the truth. You did right, Sandor; the Seven teach us that a man has an obligation to defend his wife. You did not murder those men; you protected your family, and I would not judge you harshly for it. It was a necessary punishment for such as them."

"If you think I'm seeking for your approval or forgiveness, you can bugger off," Sandor snarls, banging his hand against the table once more, the action causing Sansa to move away from him and wring her hands. "Elder brother, pray would you excuse us a moment? I wish to have a private word with my husband."

"Of course, Lady Sansa," he nods, stepping outside.

Once he is gone, Sansa turns to Sandor. "My love, I know this is all very upsetting but please, you must stop the way you are speaking to Elder brother, for my sake if not your own. I know you have no belief in the gods and I respect that. However I was raised to show reverence for such holy men and you are disgracing my beliefs though you may not be aware of it."

"That is not my intention, Sansa, but damn it to Seven hells I wish he'd say what he means!"

"No doubt he _would_ if you would allow it," Sansa sighs. "He is offering support; please allow him to say what he wishes in his own way without grousing. You do not realize how intimidating you are at times, even to me."

"Aye, true enough."

Taking him by the hands, Sansa stares into his eyes. "You…you frighten me when you are like this…I cannot help it. It is the same as the way you feel around fire…I have been hurt by too many men, it is all too familiar…" She whispers, wringing her hands once more.

 _Shit, how could I have been so stupid not to realize how my anger affects her? I just saw it in her earlier today…how could I let my anger cause me to forget?_ Sickened with the knowledge he has frightened her once again, Sandor kneels in front of her and wraps his arms around her waist. "I understand…I do; forgive me, wife…I will be more mindful my behavior around you. You need never fear me, Sansa," he whispers against her belly. "You must believe me, wife. I would never hurt you."

"My heart knows it, Sandor...I just…at times the fear returns to me. It is not you, my love…it is your anger which frightens me. So many times a man being angry near me has ended with me getting punished for it…it is almost an automatic reaction, this fear of mine." Sansa holds him close, running her hands through his hair.

Sandor knows it all too well, having seen Joffrey order her beaten her many times. "I know, lass," he says quietly.

"I know one day we will be able to put everything that happened in King's Landing behind us once and for all," Sansa whispers into his hair while Sandor clings to her, overcome with self-loathing. "Just because I have this reaction at times does not mean I do not love you. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone, Sandor, and I do not hold you responsible for it. I only ask you keep it in mind, as I keep your fear of fire."

"I swear it, wife, I will not forget again," he whispers, taking her hand and kissing her wedded ring. "I love you, Little bird, I would never intentionally hurt you."

"I know," Sansa whispers, tilting his face up to look at her. "At the cabin you said you wanted to talk to Elder brother, that you want to change. He can help you if you let him."

 _I must talk to him, damn it. I have to change, for her-we can't go on like this._ Sighing heavily, he nods, rising to his feet. "He would help you, too. Maybe you should tell him how you feel, and about your dreams as well."

"Yes, you are right; it would do me good," Sansa smiles. "How good of you to point it out; I do not know why I did not think of it for myself."

"It's always harder to see the need for help for ourselves," Sandor says quietly. "I don't mean to upset you, wife but I'm damn sure not explaining myself to him, and I'm not sorry I killed those men, either," he grumbles and Sansa wraps her arms around his waist.

"I understand, it is a difficult situation to say the least. Let us call him back in, shall we?" She asks, gazing up at him with a small smile. "Come, let us hear him out."

Sandor opens the door and waves the holy man closer. "Come back in, Elder brother," he says gruffly, moving a chair toward him as he enters.

"Is everything all right?" He asks, glancing between them, noticing the affectionate way they relate to each other with a relieved smile.

"Yes, everything is fine," Sansa smiles back at the holy man. "Forgive us, please, but I needed a moment alone with my husband before we continued our conversation. I…I do not wish to question him in front of others; it is part of my upbringing to keep family matters private."

"A wise course, my dear, and one I am sure many others would benefit from doing likewise," Elder brothers smiles genially. "As I was saying, am I to understand you wish to figuratively bury the Hound?"

Sighing, Sandor frowns and resumes sharpening his katar. _You must do it for the Little bird, for yourself and your future children. The Lannisters needed the Hound; Sansa needs_ _ **me**_ _._ _Just tell him, you coward._ "Aye; Sansa and I talked of it at the cabin. For our future pups and our marriage, I believe I have no choice. But it won't be easy, that; it has been part of me most of my life." Sansa moves close to him and gently begins rubbing his shoulders as he speaks.

Elder brother nods knowingly. "Indeed it is not an easy thing to change such a persona; it is a survival instinct and becomes second nature, often emerging at the most inopportune times. I speak of my experience when I first arrived here. It may surprise you to learn that I was once very much like you, Sandor and I have done things even worse than the Hound too. I know firsthand what it is to put aside such a personality and I would like to help you, if I may."

Swallowing hard, Sandor nods while avoiding the holy man's gaze, wondering: _What could he have done that is worse than kinslaying?_

"You will need to learn to trust me first, Sandor, and such will not happen overnight. I will pray for you and when the time is right you will come to me, as I did Septon Meribald," Elder brother says, rising from his seat. "You need not fear me telling the others that you killed the soldiers. I came to you as your spiritual leader and you confided in me as such; I cannot violate your confidence," he says with a wink, making the sign of the Seven over each of them.

"Thank you, Elder brother," Sansa says tearfully, clasping his hand in her own and Sandor nods in agreement. "Speaking of this with you eases my mind greatly."

"'Tis nothing, my dear; I will leave you to your meal now, as I have much work left preparing the bodies before dawn. Rest easy, the both of you," he says, waving as he walks down the path to the septry.

 _Tell the man, damn you…"_ Wait, Elder brother," Sandor calls, walking down the path in his bare feet to reach the holy man while Sansa turns to go inside, allowing her husband a measure of privacy.

Elder brother turns toward him, "What is it, Sandor?"

"I know I'm a mean-tempered dog but I am grateful for what you've done for us," Sandor rasps low, staring at his feet, his words halting as he struggles to express his thoughts. "I don't…bloody hells, I want to learn better, I do. I need to do it for her…for us."

"I understand, Sandor; it is hard for you to speak of all that concerns you. As time passes it will get easier. You have taken the first step, asking for help and realizing the importance of changing for the sake of your family. Take your ease, son, and we'll speak more of it tomorrow," Elder brother says, shaking his hand and patting his shoulder before starting toward the septry once more.

Sighing, Sandor watches the man disappear from view. _I want better for us…I need to keep Sansa safe. I need to protect her from my anger so she will heal. Damn it, I won't be the reason she's unhappy, I won't. She deserves her happiness and security, and I will make sure she has it._

When Sandor returns, Sansa is sitting on the hearth slicing cheese and apples on a plate. "Come my love, you must still be hungry," she says, beckoning to him. "There is plenty of food left for the both of us."

"Are you…feeling better?" He asks softly, uncertainty clouding his face. "Did your…fear go away?"

 _My poor beloved husband; he worries I am still afraid of him._ "Yes, dearest, I am feeling better," she says, drawing close to him and taking his hand in hers. "Please…won't you join me?"

Grunting, Sandor sits beside her, gently brushing the hair away from her face. "Let's go to bed, wife."

Smiling, Sansa takes him by the hand and leads him to the bed. "Make love to me, husband; I have longed for you all day," she whispers, gently lifting his tunic and caressing his chest and Sandor sees she hoping he will realize she is not afraid, that she needs to feel close to him after the trials of the day.

* * *

" _Sandor, hear me. Sandor." Rubbing his eyes, Sandor's eyes focus on the enormous granite walls of Winterfell shrouded in black smoke. The great castle stands surrounded by an encamped army buried deep in the snows of winter. Sandor cannot make out the colors or the sigil and he strains for a better view._

_Am I dreaming? It feels real but…Sandor raises his nose to the air, deeply inhaling the smell the smoke and ash. The icy air of the north bites at his face and hands, chilling him to the bone. Unsure of where he is, he reaches for his sword and calls out, "Who's there? Show yourself!"_

" _Goodson, it is I, Eddard. Still your anger so you can hear my words," a deep voice intones while a cold wind swirls around him._

" _Lord Eddard? Lord Eddard, I hear you," Sandor rasps, struggling to calm himself. "Where is Sansa? Where is my wife?"_

" _I am here beside you husband," Sansa's sweet voice answers, and turning he sees her walking alongside him. Smiling, she approaches him and places her small hand in his own. "I am safe when I am with you. We are stronger together."_

_She looks stunning, wearing a beautiful gray gown with silver fox fur trimming the neckline and sleeves; it is a gown he has never seen her wear. Grinning, he draws her close. "Aye, so you've said before. Your father is calling to me, love." Turning toward Winterfell, Sandor says, "Lord Eddard, Sansa and I both wish to hear you."_

" _Sandor, Sansa will not hear me in her dreams. She is here now with you because you hold her close in your heart; she has become a part of you, as you are a part of her. My little lemoncake cannot bear what I am about to show you on her own. You must help her, Sandor or I fear what is coming will break her will."_

_Turning to glance at his wife, he sees Sansa has disappeared and a sickening dread washes over him. Swallowing hard, Sandor rubs his hand over his face and rasps, "I am ready, goodfather; say your peace. I will do whatever you say, whatever needs to be done for Sansa. I swear it on our marriage and my love for her."_

_When he is finished speaking, Sandor finds himself in a great castle, where a large number of well-dressed people are assembled in the Great Hall, laughing and talking and drinking wine. "This looks like a wedding-but who's wedding?" Sandor wonders, glancing around for clues. On the far wall he sees an intricate tapestry depicting two grey towers and bridge of the Twins on a grey field surmounting a body of blue water._

" _House Frey…" Sandor mutters, his stomach sinking as he remembers Sansa mentioning Robb Stark and the Frey daughter he rejected as wife. "Seven buggering hells…"_


	38. Sandor Dreams of the Red Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a bit longer-I was in the hospital. I am doing much better now! Thank you for all the kind comments and concrit. Reviews are love and feed the muse :D
> 
> Warning: this chapter has a description of the Red Wedding. It is less graphic than GRRM's version but the italic portion of the story has details of it woven throughout.

* * *

_"Lord Eddard? Lord Eddard, where are you?" Sandor calls out in the center of the room. No one turns toward him at the sound of his voice; the guests laugh and talk, oblivious to his presence. The smell of roasted lamb and ale fills the air and the guests are feasting and drinking their fill._

_At the head table is the bride, a very lovely yet frail, diminutive girl who is weeping silently while picking at her plate of pink lamb. Beside her is the groom, a man with the same reddish color hair of Sansa's kingly brother and wearing the distinctive red and blue fish sigil of House Tully._

_"So the Tullys offered old Floppy Fish as a substitute for the Young Wolf," Sandor smirks out loud, gazing about the room at the revelers. "Poor bargain, that. I'm surprised Walder allowed it," he comments to no one in particular._

_Loud music drowns out most of the conversation and the musicians are surprisingly unskilled to be employed at a highborn wedding. Glancing around, he sees most of the guests are too drunk to care. "Stop that bloody racket! I never heard such in all the years I served the Lannisters and Baratheons. Even Littlefinger's brothels have better musicians!" He growls, shoving the lute player nearest him aside as he lays eyes on Robb Stark._

_Seated at the head of the guest table, the young wolf has a woman Sandor recognizes as Lady Catelyn at his side. "There's the Little bird's family," Sandor mutters while hurrying toward them. An inexplicable sense of urgency courses through his body as he draws near and discovers that the Stark Kingsguard is far too drunk to pay him any mind._

_To his utter astonishment, Sandor's hasty approach toward the young king goes completely unchallenged. "Useless bastards! You should be hung, all of all of you! Get on your feet and protect your king!" Sandor shakes his head in disgust as he makes his way through the Stark Kingsguard. "Get on your bloody feet!" He snarls, kicking the nearest guard as reaches of the young king._

_Sandor turns to see Walder Frey sneering at Sansa's brother the moment Robb turns away from him. Glancing at the musicians, he notices they are unkempt and rough-looking, occasionally side eyeing the master of the house. "Fuck me if they are musicians; sellsword more like," Sandor mutters._

_Robb is laughing with his bannermen, seemingly unaware of Sandor standing before him. "King Robb, I am Sandor Clegane; we met when I arrived at Winterfell as part of King Robert's retinue. I have since married your sister, Sansa. I am loyal to your family," Sandor rasps, bowing low. Puzzled by his lack of response, Sandor reaches out for him. "My king, you must listen to me! As your goodbrother I insist you come with me. You are in grave danger here!" Sandor shouts over the music._

_Suddenly the song "The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown" brings the guests to their feet. "To bed! To bed!" Everyone clamors, laughing and cheering as they eagerly strip away the bride and groom's wedding clothes. "Worthless Tully," he thinks, watching the frightened girl struggle to cover herself. "I'd cut off any man's arm who tried to undress the Little bird," he sneers, shaking his head._

_Once the couple disappears into their wedded chamber, "The Rains of Castamere" begins to play, the choice of song clearly bewildering the Stark bannermen and Sandor alike. "Is that some sick joke on your king?" Sandor shouts at Walder, drawing his sword._

_The howling of a direwolf echoes in the distance and then abruptly is silenced. When he turns back toward Robb, Sandor sees Roose Bolton lurch forward through a men and savagely driving his blade straight through Robb's heart._

_"Fight me, you flaying fucking bastard! You killed a mere boy; see how you fare against the Hound!" Enraged, Sandor brings down his greatsword across Roose's chest but his sword stoke has no effect, neither is the Bolton traitor fazed by his blows._

_"What the bloody fuck?!" He shouts, furiously slashing at his enemy. Roose's thin lips pull into a taut smile as Sandor levels another blow against him before suddenly finding himself outside the castle alongside the river beneath the Twins. The mournful howling of a wolf draws Sandor to the water's edge. "I know that sound," he mutters in a panic, rushing toward the river._

_Nearing the banks, Sandor recognizes Arya's direwolf Nymeria whining and nosing the nude body of a woman in the shallow end. Tangled up in the underbrush, the pale corpse stands out in the moonlight, her long red hair floating along the surface of the water. Sandor finds her appearance frighteningly familiar and racing toward the deceased woman, he falls to his knees. "Seven hells, Eddard, no! I beg of you, not my wife!"_

_"Sandor, calm yourself; it is not Sansa," he hears Eddard's voice through the rustling leaves of the trees. Carefully settling her on her back, he recognizes it is Lady Catelyn and seeing her slender throat slashed ear to ear enrages him even further. When he moves to lift her out of the water she suddenly disappears from the scene. Distraught, Sandor sinks down on a nearby rock and soon hears the sound of a young woman wailing nearby._

_"Eddard, why? For fuck's sake, why did you not warn them? Can't you put a stop to this? They don't deserve such a fate," Sandor asks as he moves deeper into the dense wood in search of the crying woman._

_"I know, Sandor; I share your heartache. Believe me, I have tried but Robb and Catelyn are so full of grief and anger they cannot hear me. I cannot prevent Arya from seeing this scene, either, as she will see it through her bond with Nymeria. The direwolf will find Catelyn here along the river."_

_When Sandor raises his eyes he sees Arya dressed as a boy sitting among the leaves, clutching her knees to her chest and gently rocking back and forth. "Go to Sansa, goodbrother," she whispers to him sadly. "Help her. Jaqen will help me. Father has told him."_

_"You know I married your sister?"_

_"Stupid, who do you think helped you bring Gregor down? It was me through my direwolf. I did it for Sansa."_

_"Sounds like something the little she-wolf would say," Sandor smirks to himself, remembering her feisty temperament in King's Landing. "Many thanks for that, goodsister._

_"Hound, I saw you with Sansa through Nymeria; I know she loves you. I took you off my list."_

_"List? What list, she-wolf? And who the fuck is Jaqen?" He rasps as he draws close to her._

_"My list of people I wish dead. You killed Mychah, the butcher's son."_

_"Aye, that I did and I regret it, lass."_

_Nodding, Arya shrugs. "Jaqen is my friend. Keep Sansa away, Sandor. Don't let her come here," Arya says before transforming into Nymeria and bounding off into the darkness. Sandor follows her and finds Sansa wailing, kneeling in the muddy river bank while clutching her brother's lifeless body to her chest. As he approaches her he sees Robb's direwolf's head has been sown onto his body. "Bloody sick bastards," he grumbles, reaching out to Sansa._

_His wife's lovely gray gown is covered in mud and when she recognizes him, she turns loose of her brother and holds out her arms to him as a child would do._

_"Seven buggering hells," Sandor swears, gently pulling her away from his lifeless form. "Little bird, you're safe with men. No one will hurt you or I'll kill them," he whispers into her hair, stroking her back. "I'll fucking kill every last Bolton and Greyjoy for this, I swear it. I'll give you justice for your family. I'll storm their castles and burn them to ground and lay waste to their every single one of their fucking bannermen for what they've done here."_

_"No, Sandor, you must not seek revenge for us. You must help Sansa and keep her safe. When the time comes, she will see her family seat restored. You must swear you will keep her away." Eddard's voice intones and once again Sandor is returned to Winterfell. The Stark banners of the encampment around the castle walls are replaced by flags bearing the Ironborn squid and the flayed man of the Boltons._

_"I swear it," Sandor shakily answers, drawing Sansa close to his chest._

_"Sandor, soon you will hear Rickon and Bran are also dead at the hands of Theon Greyjoy but do not believe it, goodson."_

_"Is that why I see Winterfell surrounded by the Boltons and Greyjoys?"_

_"Yes. Winterfell has fallen into their hands and during the confusion Bran and Rickon went missing. When such news reaches you, know that Jojen and Meera Reed are with my sons. Tell Sansa; she knows who they are and will understand. House Bolton will soon be the new Wardens of the North in place of House Stark; Ramsay Bolton will be named the new Lord of Winterfell. The Boltons hold Theon captive now. You must never allow Sansa to go there, no matter what may befall the family."_

_Looking down at his little wife nestled in his arms, Sansa snuggles against him, seemingly unable to hear her father's words. "Sandor, do not tell Sansa yet. Robb and Catelyn are still alive and she will want to go to them."_

_"Bloody hells! You expect me to keep this from her?"_

_"You must. Keep her safe and help her when the time comes. It will not be long now. I sense I can no longer help Robb and Cat. Listen to me closely: with the King in the North dead, Stannis defeated and the Ironborn divided, the war will wind down as the Lannisters emerge victorious. When this occurs, that is your signal to begin heading north to Jon."_

_"I swear it, Lord Eddard. What will become of the little she-wolf?"_

_"She will be safe with Jaqen H'gar. Promise me you will take my beloved Sansa to Jon at the Wall."_

_"I swear it, Lord Eddard. I will take Sansa to her brother," he says, tucking Sansa closer to his chest._

* * *

"Sandor! Sandor! Please, my love, let loose your hold!" Sansa gasps, awakening the man. The anxiety in Sansa's lovely blue eyes brings him back to reality and Sandor realizes he is violently shaking while tightly clutching her body against his own. His heart pounding, he slowly withdraws from her and regains his senses, desperately trying to slow his breathing. _Bloody hells, that felt all too real. Calm down, dog, or you'll frighten her out of her wits. She mustn't know._

Shivering, Sandor discovers he is drenched in a cold sweat. "What is it, dearest?" Sansa whispers softly, gently brushing his damp hair away from his face. "You were moaning my name and gripping me so tightly! What scares you so?"

Even the sight of his Little bird tucked safely beneath him is not enough to calm his nerves. "Nothing, Little bird," he mutters against her skin, noticing Sansa too is soaked with his sweat. Caressing his face and back, she softly whispers into his hair. "I am here; do not think on it any more my love. It is only a bad dream."

Sandor falls back and rests his cheek against her bare breast, desperately clinging to her once more. _Careful with her dog; you're like to bruise her tender skin._ More gently, he begins stroking her stomach and hips. "I love you, Sansa. No one will hurt you."

"As I love you. No one will hurt you, either, I swear it," she whispers back, wrapping her legs around him in a tight embrace. Smirking, he raises his head. "The Little bird's growing claws?"

"Yes," she smiles at him. "And I will not allow anyone to hurt my beloved husband, not even in his dreams."

Sandor smiles at the fierce protectiveness in her voice; no one has ever offered to protect him in his life, and he cannot bring himself to mock her sincere if impossible promise. "I believe you wouldn't, wife."

Sitting up suddenly, he pulls his tunic over his head. "Are you cold? Let me draw you a hot bath," Sansa offers, wrapping her robe around her. "We have enough water left from yesterday's reserve and it will be just the thing to set you aright."

"No, love; I must speak to Elder brother at once," he rasps, pulling on his smallclothes and breeches.

"Forgive me for stating the obvious but it is the middle of the night. Can it not wait until the morning?" Sansa frowns, worry etching her fine features.

"No, the bloody soldiers will be leaving then and gods only knows when I'll have the chance. It must be now," he grunts, pulling on his boots.

Pursing her lips, she nods and turns to gather her gown. "Allow me to go with you. I'll just be a moment."

"No!" He barks, roughly taking her by the shoulders. Viewing her frightened countenance, Sandor forces himself to calm down. Sighing heavily, he says in a softer tone, "No, Little bird; forgive me. I need to talk to him alone, understand?"

"Alright," she says uncertainly, nervously watching Sandor rapidly draining the contents of the wineskin. "I will wait for you here."

"Sansa, go back to sleep. I'll awaken you when I return," he grunts, leading her back to the bed and brushing his mouth against hers in a quick kiss before hastily leaving the cabin.

* * *

 

Pounding on the Elder brother's door awakens the holy man from a sound sleep; he opens to find Sandor Clegane half dressed, sweating profusely and out of breath. "What is it, Sandor? Has something happened to Sansa?"

"No, nothing like that." Sandor mutters, barging past him and flopping down in the nearest chair.

"I can see already this conversation will require tea. Please begin when you are ready. If you don't mind I will put on this pot while you tell me what troubles you," Elder brother offers.

"Alright. Well," he stammers. "I had a dream and not the first one like it, either. Fuck me, you're going to thing I'm a bloody madman," he growls, running his hand across his face.

Puzzled, Elder brother sits down beside him. "Try taking a few deep breaths, Sandor; there is no rush." When Sandor sighs heavily, Elder brother pats his shoulder. "Tell me about this dream."

Cursing under his breath, Sandor rises to his feet and begins pacing while running his hands through his hair. "Have you ever heard anything about the Starks and their direwolves?"

Pausing in thought, the Elder brother slowly nods. "They keep them as pets as I recall, and the only people who can successfully tame them. Some say they have a special bond of sorts, perhaps the doing of the northern gods."

"Aye, well it's no fairy tale, believe that. The Little bird's sister send her direwolf to us to protect us from-" Stopping, Sandor grits his teeth. "You have anything stronger than tea-maybe wine, old man?"

"I do," Elder brother says. "Smells like you've had plenty already. Would you like some?"

When Sandor does not answer, Elder brother adds, "Do you feel like you need wine?"

"Yes, yes I do but," he mutters low before pausing once more. "But I don't want to need it."

The Elder brother nods understandingly. "Believe me, I understand you perfectly, Sandor. I once had the same trouble; in fact I still do for it returns to me in times of difficulty or suffering." Rising, the Elder brother adds a few pinches of another tea to a tankard along with a tincture from a glass vial.

Handing Sandor the tankard, he says, "Here, lad, this will settle your nerves without the headache or sickness tomorrow. Drink it down now and then we'll have our talk."

Grumbling, Sandor takes a long draw. "This tastes like shit," he growls, wincing before taking another sip.

"It certainly does and I should know; many times I awakened from an all-night bender and found myself at the wrong end of a horse stall."

Barking out a harsh laugh, Sandor nods. "I've done such a few times myself, that."

"Try it with some honey," Elder brother laughs and adds a spoonful to the mug.

After drinking down the concoction, Sandor slowly begins opening up to the holy man, who patiently listens as Sandor hoarsely tells him of the Stark bond with their direwolves. Eventually he moves on to relate the battle of Blackwater and the wildfire and their escape from King's Landing into the Riverlands. Lastly he recounts his dreams of Jon and Lord Eddard and Sansa's dreams as well.

When the sun peaks over the horizon, Sandor exhausted mentally and physically, finally finishes his tale. "Am I losing my bloody mind? Sansa has the same type of dreams but I was taught as a boy that such things are the providence of women and necessary for taking care of children and such. I have never experienced anything like it, at least not until the last few moons. Is it from not having any wine?"

"No, Sandor, nothing like that. Some people do get hallucinations if they have overindulged in wine for many years and then suddenly stop but it is most definitely not the case here." Elder brother pours him more tea. "I am certain that during your conversations with your goodbrother Jon and your goodfather Eddard, you were in fact having a vision, Sandor. It is most certainly not the same as a dream, as I am sure you are very well aware."

Sandor scoffs and rises to his feet. "Visions? I'm no bloody Stark, man. How is such a thing even possible?"

"At times, love makes such connections between husband and wife or parent and child. You and Sansa share a very deep bond-profound, spiritual even-I have seen it with my own eyes," Elder brother insists when Sandor tosses his head and laughs disdainfully. "Why do you think you were so drawn to her?" Elder brother asks carefully.

Scoffing, Sandor growls, "You've been around her, old man, you can figure it out; bloody hells, she's the Maiden made flesh, that lass. Prettiest little thing I've ever laid eyes on and a proper lady with a heart of gold. She's too good for the likes of me, believe that," he sighs.

"Indeed, she is a very lovely and kind-hearted woman. If you think she's too good for you, that you are not worthy of her, how do you explain her being drawn to you, then?"

"I try not to ask myself that question," he grunts, the first moment of unguarded speech he allows Elder brother to glimpse in him. "Might be I don't want to know why."

"I see," Elder brother says quietly. "It is a question that needs answering for your own sake, Sandor, and for the sake of your marriage. I would imagine this has led to a great deal of jealousy and possessiveness on your part."

"Why shouldn't I be possessive? Seven hells, she's my wife after, all." Sandor sheepishly grumbles his reply while running his thumbnail through the grooves in Elder brother's weirwood table. Insecurity floods his heart at the very idea of having such a conversation with Sansa and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

"Sandor, that is between the two of you. Should you wish for advice I would be happy to help you," Elder brother casually comments while refilling his tankard.

"Aye," Sandor mutters under his breath while folding his arms tightly against his chest, averting his eyes all the while.

Clearing his throat, Elder brother says, "Now, about these visions you have experienced: I believe they are different in nature but both serve the same purpose."

"Which is?"

"They serve to guide you and Sansa's behavior and protect you against the future trials of both the Stark family and Westeros as a whole. It is the will of the gods, Sandor."

"How can such a thing happen to me of all people?" Sandor growls. "I didn't ask for this shit from them!"

"No, you did not. But you would do well to view such divine warnings as a gift, not a burden. It saved your life once and may prevent you from making terrible mistakes, should you choose to heed them. It comes from the afterlife and no doubt at great effort on Lord Eddard's part."

Smirking, Sandor rolls his eyes in disgust and shakes his head.

"Why does this anger you so much, Sandor?"

"Look at me!" Sandor roars, pointing to his scarred face. "I gave up on the gods the day my evil brother did this and I'm no hurry to curry their favor now. Those same gods anointed my brother and heard his so-called "knightly" vows and yet ignored my mother and sister's pleas for mercy at his hands! Fuck them all to the Seven hells! If I could have I would have killed every fucking one of those cruel bastards for letting my mother and sister die!" Slamming his fist against the table in a fury, he leaps out of his chair and begins pacing once more.

"You associate your grief and suffering with the gods, is that so?"

"Damn right I do! Who else allowed such to happen? I've given up on ever giving thought to them."

"Perhaps they did not give up on you, Sandor. Did you ever look at it like that?"

"What in bloody hells does that even mean?" Sandor growls, his anger rendering him out of breath.

"Well, they gave you the love of a beautiful and caring woman. They helped you keep her safe, gave you the strength to help her escape the stronghold of King's Landing. They bonded you in heart and marriage and have allowed you to work through many difficulties. They preserved her alive when she was gravely ill, helped you find shelter."

"Aye, that they did. About bloody time they did right by someone I-I-" Sandor stops short, bringing his fist down onto the table once more.

"Love?" Elder brother finishes. "Yes, indeed it is. They gave you more than that, too. Sandor, they gave you justice against the monster who burned you. You said yourself Sansa's sister helped you kill him by means of her direwolf-the gods gave him into your hand by means of the bond you share with the Starks. They led the Riverlanders to you and helped you recover from your wounds. They brought you to us here."

Closing his eyes, Sandor slumps back into his seat. As much as I want to deny it, the bloody Elder brother is right; it must have been the gods that did all those things. What other explanation is there? But why? I'm not a believer like the Little bird-why would they do this for me?

"You're wondering why they would bother saving and helping a sinner like you?" Elder brother nudges gently.

Slowly Sandor nods, averting his eyes and crossing his arms.

"For the same reason they bothered saving me, Sandor; because they do not judge us as harshly as we would judge ourselves. The gods see us as we truly are; you must learn to accept that we are more than the sum of the worst things we've done, son." Elder brother says, gently placing his hand on Sandor's shoulder.

Choking back a sob, Sandor abruptly stands. After forcing out a low, "Many thanks," he hurriedly leaves the cabin and heads for the stables.

* * *

 

Sansa watches her husband walk the water's edge for several hours, wondering what, if anything, she should do for her husband. His dream clearly upset him far more than he will admit and though she is very curious, she decides she will not press him for details. After bathing and staying in prayer for an hour, she decides to go out to meet him.

He is still disheveled, his hair in disarray and his clothes sweat stained as he stalks the shoreline but she still runs into his arms and kisses him soundly in front of the soldiers who are now preparing to leave the Isle.

"Little bird," he rasps low, holding her close while scowling menacingly at any Lannister soldier who glances their direction.

"Come inside my love," she smiles brightly at him. "I have water on for a fresh bath waiting for you and I retrieved some lavender sprigs as well."

"You trying to make me smell pretty?" He laughs roughly, knowing he stinks of sweat and horses.

Laughing, she takes his arm and leads him toward their cabin. "Brother McCann already delivered a tray of food to break our fast, knowing we wish to avoid the soldiers. Most kind of him, don't you think, my love?"

"Aye, that it was." Pausing, he turns her face up to him. "You needn't act like everything is normal, Little bird, nor do you need to worry about me. I need you to trust me now. Say you trust me," he whispers, staring into her eyes.

"Of course I trust you, my love," Sansa answers, searching his eyes in return and caressing his cheek. "Let us not speak of such, now. It is time for you to enjoy your bath."

"I only enjoy baths when you are in them with me, woman," he growls into her neck before kissing her.

"I want to help you feel better, Sandor, so I will do whatever you wish," she grins at him with a naughty twinkle in her eyes, causing him to laugh once more. "I have some lavender oil with which I wish to massage you when you are done. It smells like the Seven heavens and it will relax you. Then we shall have a nap; what say you?"

Snorting, he shakes his head. "I'm not smelling like a woman, you crazy little bird."

"You will smell like lavender, not a woman, and besides, who would dare tease you?" She smiles up at him.

As Sansa fills their tub with hot water, Sandor watches the Lannister men loading the bodies onto the wagon from the porch. "Buggering bastards are almost ready to leave," he calls into the cabin.

Wiping her hands on a towel, she joins him on the porch. "Good. I will be very much relieved when they are long gone. The Isle will be pleasant for us once again."

"Sansa, I…I'm sure you think we should talk, or-" he stammers, staring at his feet.

"Shh my love, we will have time for that later. For now, you have a lovely hot bath ready for you and a meal when you wish to eat." She says, kissing his hand and leading him inside.


	39. Confessions

The sounds of the soldiers packing the wagons resound in the distance as Sansa arranges the utensils for the morning meal. "Thank the gods they are finally leaving."

"Aye, buggering bastards, all of them." Exhausted, Sandor sinks down into the steaming water with a groan. After talking to Elder brother and his vigorous walk, Sandor feels somewhat better. Now that he is alone in Sansa's presence, his anxiety escalates once more, for the man is at a loss how he will keep Lord Eddard's warning a secret from his beloved wife.

"Come join me, Sansa," he grunts waving her over to him. "That will keep."

"With pleasure, my love," Sansa abruptly stops her preparations, disrobes and lowers herself into the bath with a winning smile.

"Where is my bashful little bird this morning?" He teases, trying to lighten the mood.

"She is fluttering around but I sense there may be a wolf here in her stead."

After settling herself on his lap, she runs her hands through his hair with a frown. "Lower your head, Sandor," she softly commands, massaging the lavender soap into his long black hair.

"You're going to have me smelling like the fucking knight of flowers," he grouses, settling his cheek against her breast while she works the sudsy lather through his thick strands with care. "And not for the first time, at that."

"Hah! You don't seem to mind very much."

"Only because you're as naked as your nameday, lass."

"Never mind that. Besides, you are quite pleasant to look upon without clothes as well, my love. Loras Tyrell will never see the day he has such a pleasing, powerfully muscled physique as you, for all his flowers," she gently teases, knowing full well the mere mention of the red rose the young knight presented to her at the tourney still annoys Sandor to no end.

"Bloody hells," he mutters at her praise and yet Sansa can feel the burned side of his mouth twitch into a smile at her words. An awkward silence extends between them as Sansa rinses his hair and so the young woman begins humming _Florian and Jonquil_ while carefully removing the remaining soap.

"Well, go on, woman," Sandor rasps in a whisper against her skin when she finishes her song.

"Go on? What do you mean?" Sansa asks innocently, running her soapy hands over the muscular expanse of his back with care.

"You know you're dying to ask me. Go on, then," he growls.

Pausing, Sansa answers, "No, I do not believe I will, my love. You will tell me when you are ready, of that I am certain. You are still quite distressed; I feel it in your body. I would not force a confidence from you now." She replies nonchalantly, remembering watching her mother handle her father's anxious behavior in a similar fashion.

Heaving a large sigh, Sandor settles his wife astride his lap. "I cannot tell you, Sansa. I want to but not now. You have to trust me," he says, almost pleading.

Searching his eyes, Sansa slowly nods. "I do trust you," she says running her hands down his shoulders soothingly. "Father came to you, did he not?"

"Yes, wife," Sandor rasps, his voice even harsher than usual. "He did. I cannot tell you the dream, though. Forgive me."

Startled and angry, Sansa blinks back her surprise. "But why, Sandor? Why can you not tell me? Surely Father does not mean for you to keep it hidden."

"Lord Eddard specifically told me to not tell you the details, Sansa. He feels it would be for the best to wait," he mutters. "Damn it, he made me swear it as his goodson. I mean to keep my word to him. At the right time, he gave me leave to tell you. Won't be long now," Sandor whispers with his eyes lowered, afraid she will see the apprehension in his eyes.

"Sandor, is it so very bad?" Sansa softly probes, her eyes widening with alarm. He has never behaved this way with her and a dark foreboding floods through her heart at his words. She discerns it would take very little pressure to get Sandor to relent, but angry though she is, she still cannot bring herself to goad him into defying her father's wishes.

Sniffing, he nods and pulls her body flush against his chest. "I'm afraid it is, Little bird. You must trust me."

"Oh," she says weakly, leaning against him for strength. "I trust you."

"We'll get through it, believe that. Your father will see to it."

"Of course, dearest," Sansa whispers in his ear, cold fear streaming through her body. Pulling him closer still, Sansa's fear gets the better of her and soon she begins trembling in his arms. _Has Father shown Sandor that he would die soon? That we will be parted? What else could have upset him so?_

"Look at me. Sansa, _look at me_. You know I will never allow anyone to hurt you. I'll keep you safe, wife, I swear it."

"It is not that, husband. I am afraid I will lose you, that you will-" she chokes out, digging her nails into his back as though the Stranger is trying to take him from her.

"No lass, no; you misunderstand me. Your father didn't show me my death or that we would part ways-ease your mind on that score. On the contrary, Lord Eddard related that we will be together for a very long time. You will not lose me," he says into her hair. "The Stranger himself could not pry me away from you."

"Do you swear it?" Sansa asks tearfully, pulling away so she can see his eyes.

"I swear it on our marriage, love."

Relieved, Sansa breathes out a heavy sigh. "I will not press you for details, that would be most unfair. Father must have good reason to take such a course. I wish to respect that, though I must say it hurts." Pausing, she notices Sandor duck his head away from her while averting his eyes. "Is there something else you wish to say to me?"

"I-yes, it's about the wine," he begins uneasily, all the while eyeing her closely.

Surprised, Sansa nods slowly. "About the wine, you say? Alright, then."

Shifting beneath her, Sandor grits his teeth, willing the words he practiced while pacing the beachfront to come out of his mouth.

Rising out of the water, Sansa holds out her hand to him. "Come, my love. I am finished bathing you. Please, lie down on the bed and allow me to massage you. Perhaps you will find it relaxing and the words will come easier," Sansa suggests, eager for her surly husband to feel comfortable expressing himself.

"Fuck me, it's worth a try. I-I wish to see your face as I speak," Sandor grumbles, rising from the water.

 _He needs to see that I love and accept him as he is, that I will help him in any way I can._ "Then I will start with your shoulders and chest. What say you?" She smiles, pulling on her shift.

"Aye, I suppose," he relents, drying off and lying down on his back.

Raising her eyebrow with a mischievous grin, Sansa straddles his lap and pours the oil on her hands. Grunting beneath her, Sandor sighs contentedly as she begins massaging his shoulders. "Seven hells but you know how to loosen a man's tongue," he growls, running his large hands up her legs and thighs before cradling her buttocks.

"Tell me about the wine, my love," Sansa whispers, gliding her hands over his chest in even strokes. Sitting upright, Sandor stills her hands. "Please, just let me get this out without-"

"Without tempting you?" She smiles, noticing his hardened manhood pressing urgently against her inner thigh.

"Aye. I know you mean to relax me but it's having the complete opposite effect, Little bird."

"Forgive me, love," Sansa says, stilling her hands. "You were saying about the wine?"

"The wine. I, well, I seem to-" he stutters out. "Fuck me sideways, this is harder than I thought," he swears under his breath.

"Sandor, I love you. Nothing you tell me now will make me love you less," Sansa whispers, looking into his eyes and touching his cheek.

At Winterfell she heard of a sickness that makes men need wine; several of her father's men suffered with it. After seeing her father help one of his bannermen to the maester, Sansa asked him about it during her lessons later that day. Maester Luwin about it told her it often follows a terrible injury or event or sometimes it even runs in families. He then called for her father, and asked her to repeat her worries to him.

After listening to her carefully, she remembers her father softly smile at her words. "That man endured terrible suffering during Robert's Rebellion, my dear. It is no wonder he has the sickness. It helps him forget, it would seem. We must pity him and try to help, not deal with him harshly."

"Yes Father, we will help him," she smiled, not really understanding but wanting to show she was willing to offer her assistance. "I will bring him some tea, later, would that be alright?"

"Yes, that's my sweet little lemoncake," he grinned, tweaking her curls. "Go to the kitchens and tell Nan I said you could have a tartlet before supper." The memory sends a sharp pain to her heart, followed by a sweet ache.

Sansa has often wondered if Sandor suffered from a similar affliction, considering his brutal assault from Gregor as a boy and length of the time he fought for the Lannisters. He has kept his drinking hidden from her, or so he thought, and she is curious to hear him out.

Swallowing hard, Sandor clears his throat and presses his forehead against hers. "Seven hells, I seem to _need_ it. I use it to relax, to forget; sometimes just to get through whatever shitty thing is going on at the time."

"Like the battle," she offers softly.

"Yes, well, that was fear and needing the wine together. But it isn't always something that _extreme_ , I guess I would say, that makes me long for it."

"Tell me, Sandor," she says, caressing his face. "Let me share the burden, my love. I want to."

"You cannot bear it, lass. This is my own doing."

"How so?"

Sighing deeply, Sandor's words sound shaky in his own ears. "When I was a young squire, I drank to be one of the soldiers, to be accepted as part of the group and prove I was a man. It didn't take long for me to learn that I wasn't, well, afraid after a few pints of ale or a wineskin."

 _Isn't that the way of men in battle?_ Shrugging, Sansa shakes her head. "That isn't so unusual, is it?"

"No, but then I came to like the feeling enough that I, ahem, yearned for it and looked for any opportunity to indulge in it."

"Like I long for lemoncakes?"

"Aye, in a way, but much more intense-like a hunger, almost. It was part of daily court life and, uh, celebrating, as well" Sandor glances up at her, wondering if she understands his meaning. _Wine and women were part of celebrating since I was a squire. How can I make the innocent little bird understand that?_

"A flagon of sour red, dark as blood, all a man needs. Or a woman," Sansa repeats his words spoken long ago. Hearing his bitter speech repeated in her sweet voice fills the man with self-loathing.

"I shouldn't have said such to you, wife. You were a child then and didn't deserve some drunken fool slobbering all over you," he shudders involuntarily at the thought.

"You never slobbered on me," Sansa smiles. "Ser Dontos did that."

Though he recognizes her teasing tone, Sandor's face twitches at her words _. So I wasn't the only drunk who noticed the little bird._ "Buggering bastard. I should have slit his throat."

"Sandor, he was a sick, frightened man. I pitied him."

Recoiling at her words, Sandor is rendered speechless by the realization that he, too, was sick and frightened in King's Landing. If he is honest with himself, he still is at times.

Sansa instantly recognizes her words have touched a nerve _. Tread lightly. He sees himself in my words._ "Do you mean to tell me you believe you suffer the same illness as Ser Dontos and Ser Ilyn?" Sansa asks carefully, remembering how she overheard the maids describing the squalid conditions of the mute knight's quarters. "But perhaps not such a severe case?"

Shame rises in his throat, bitter as bile. Sickened, Sandor turns away from her and closing his eyes, he labors to still the voices in his mind. A steady mantra replays in his ears, telling him that he is weak, that he should not tell her this and be man enough to handle his own business.

Sensing his trepidation, Sansa holds his face in her hands. "It's alright, my love. There is no shame in it. Please, do continue."

Reeling at her words, the man rises and begins running his hands through his hair. "Aye, I might have it at that," Sandor grumbles dejectedly while pacing the room. "Might be the drink brought out a different side of me but you said it yourself: Dontos was drunk, sick and scared." Swallowing down his misery, he shakes his head. "Might be I was no different, at times, and still am."

"I was sick and frightened many times in King's Landing myself," Sansa commiserates, worriedly watching her despondent husband. "If I had stayed, perhaps I would have learned to use wine in the same way." Sansa drank as many glasses of wine as Cersei offered her the night of the battle and welcomed the numbness it brought. It was not such a stretch to imagine she, too, would have learned to depend upon the substance in time.

Regret chokes his words but finally he manages to speak. "It's not just in King's Landing," he says, tilting her chin up to him. "You may not realize it, lass, but I've drunk plenty of Dornish sour and ale since we've been on the run. I tried to hide it."

Shaking her head, Sansa smiles sadly. "Do you _really_ believe I didn't notice such? I am your _wife_ , Sandor. I've smelled it on your breath and tasted it on your mouth many times and seen you flat-out drunk more than once."

"Buggering hells! When?" He demands, suddenly angry. Sandor has so far convinced himself she was so innocent she never noticed his drinking and that he had protected her from his darker urges. Frantic, the man fears he has somehow damaged the one person he cannot live without. When she pauses to gather her thoughts, he impatiently demands, "Damn it, tell me when!"

"When we traveled into the Riverlands you drank heavily the entire ride," she softly replies. "And again when we were in camp."

"I don't recall that," he growls.

"I have no doubt. It was after we wed and you were working up the nerve to apologize for being too rough with me."

Alarmed, he sits down beside her, staring deep into her eyes. _How many other things have I forgotten? Did I ever put the little bird at risk?_ He regrets the ill way he treated her on the serpentine and when he told her the story of his scars. Knowing he was both harsh and inappropriate with her, his behavior has been a source of shame ever since it happened. _But were there other times I don't remember?_

 _Lord Eddard mentioned the wolf bitch's friend Mycah, the boy I killed for hurting Joffrey._ Sandor barely remembers the lad and would never have been able to recall his name without hearing his goodfather say it in the dream. _How many others were there? Have I done worse when drunk, more along the lines of Gregor's behavior?_ _We're both Cleganes-mayhaps I have it in me to act like him after all._ Sickened, Sandor wracks his brain, his thoughts interrupted by his wife hesitantly beginning to speak.

"When I was feverish, I smelled it heavily upon you. You got plenty drunk with Bronn, so much so that you allowed that _trollop_   to get the better of you," Sansa fumes, suddenly angry at the memory, though she cannot say why. "You also had plenty after you killed Gregor."

"Well, that, but-"

"Well, nothing! I was afraid and I needed you! And you stayed in a stupor for three weeks!"

"Bloody hells you know that I was hurt and-"

"Yes, yes, Sandor I _do_ know! I was there, too-or did you even bother to notice? I cleaned your wound and prayed for you and sang to you!I feared you would die! "

"I remember. You took good care of me, love," he rasps quietly, astonished by her outpouring of anger.

"Yesterday was terrible, too. After you killed those men, I was afraid and I needed you to comfort me. My dreams were not pleasant, either, you know. I snuggled close for comfort against you and instead when you woke up you leapt out of bed, downed an entire wineskin and stormed off," Sansa hisses, trembling and hugging herself. "I feel alone when you are in such a state."

"Fuck!" He swears, suddenly setting her on the bed and pulling on his breeches. Sansa watches him closely, wondering if she has pushed him too far. _He is angry to learn it was never a secret to me, only to himself, and angrier still to hear it affects me, too._

Turning back to her, he shakes his head. "Why in the Seven hells didn't you ever say anything, then? I feel like a damned fool, sitting her telling you something you've bloody well known for a long time!" Sandor swears, kicking the table.

"What would have changed, Sandor, if I did?" She snaps, her eyes flashing angrily at his words.

"Sansa, you should have said something-I-how could you let me go on like some blubbering fool?" His words come harsh and fast, his sudden fury rendering him out of breath.

Furious, Sansa turns away from him. _His drinking has hurt me, too, more than I thought. Shutting off my feelings in hopes it would go away hasn't helped us, either._ Suddenly Maester Luwin's words come to mind. " _Men in rage strike those that wish them best." He is ill, as Father said of his bannermen. I must treat him with understanding and stay calm so he will confide in me. We must find a way through this together, not turn on each other._

"Because you _needed_   to tell me. Remember, I am not the one who started this conversation, Sandor," she answers quietly, slowly approaching him and holding out her hand.

Grunting, Sandor slowly relents and draws her closer to him. "Aye, true enough, that. This was my idea, after all."

"It was a good idea, too. My love, I wished to hear it from your own lips. You needed to tell me your troubles in your own way, and I respected your choice. Was that wrong?"

"No, wife, no. Damn it, I am just angry at myself is all," he sheepishly replies while snaking his arm around her waist.

"Why?"

"I could have," he stutters out angrily, "I could have hurt you. It seems I _did_ hurt you. I didn't know it, but it doesn't change that fact." The anguish in his deep gray eyes sears through Sansa as she sadly regards him.

"You must let that go, dearest," Sansa calmly responds, affectionately stroking his arm. "There is no shame in this wine sickness, husband. Father taught me it comes from great suffering. Many of his bannermen endured this affliction after the war. Perhaps that is the origin of the afffliction."

"Might be at that," he agrees. "Why didn't you mention that you saw it in me, Sansa?" He asks quietly while absently fidgeting with the delicate lacings on her shift.

"Well, I thought you needed the wine to ease your misery," she sighs. "You seemed much worse after the battle and I just knew it was due to your fear of the fire. It was bad enough in the Red Keep. I cannot even imagine what you went through on the battlefield!" Sansa whispers, tears welling in her lovely blue eyes. "I will despise Tyrion for subjecting you to such horrors for the rest of my days!"

Pausing, she shakes her head. "I did not know how to help you, my love. You were in such a state when you came to me that I left you be. I hoped things would resolve in time. Who am I to say how to treat such sufferings? You have overcome unimaginable pain, my love, both physical and otherwise. It is not for me to question how you go about it. I-I did not realize it was so very bad for you. Regrettably, I did not realize it was affecting me, as well."

Choking back a sob, Sandor bites his lip until he tastes blood at her words. _The Little bird left me be, not knowing what to do for me._ _She thought since I've already been to the Seven hells, I knew better than she what to do in such matters._ _Bloody hells, the sweet lass sees strength in me, where I see only weakness._

"Sansa, I don't want to continue like this. I want to do better for us. I-I don't want to hurt you or cause you misery, lass. You must believe that," he whispers. Kneeling before her, he pulls her close to him and rests his head on her belly. "I don't want our pups to see their father as a-"

"Shh, you mustn't say such, my love. I won't allow you to call yourself names because you are ill. You are a good man and being sick does not change that," she whispers, stroking his hair. "Come, let us break our fast. You need your strength after such an ordeal. Then we will rest and after, we will speak more of this, alright?"

Nodding, he averts his eyes and rises to his feet with a sigh. "Forgive me, wife, for hurting you."

"Thank you for saying so but it was not your fault-it was the sickness." Bending his head down, Sansa kisses his mouth tenderly. "Come now, no more of that. Brother McCann brought us some beautiful blueberries and sourdough hot cakes, doesn't that sound delicious? I've prepared a nice half stack for you."

"I love you, wife," he chokes out, stroking her cheek with a small smile.

"As I love you." Holding his face in her hands, Sansa looks deep into his eyes. "We'll get through this together. I swear it on our marriage, my love," Sansa promises sincerely, kissing his cheek and leading him to the table. "Now, let's eat."

* * *

It has been the turn of a moon since Bronn arrived at the seat of House Stokeworth. The former sellsword is surprised how well he has settled into life in the Stokeworth keep. Lollys has made the place a pleasant home for him and he finds he doesn't miss the loud, smelly bustle of city life in King'Landing.

Maneuvering through the mourners with Lollys, he finds he doesn't enjoy being in King's Landing as much as he once did and is eager to return home. Lollys is growing heavier with child as each day passes and he does not want her exposed to the open derision of the highborn class. She has remained blessedly ignorant as to the parentage of their unborn baby and for this Bronn is most grateful.

Just shy of a fortnight ago, Tyrion showed up in the middle of the night with Varys. His wife has suffered with morning sickness and confined to their rooms so it had been relatively easy to hide him in in Shae's quarters. None of the family or servants were any the wiser and Bronn was rather pleased he pulled off such a coup as harboring a kingslayer with such ease.

Once the search for the Imp spread to the outer boundaries of the Crownlands, the Spider placed Tyrion on a privately chartered ship across the Narrow Sea. Not even Tyrion himself knew the destination, as Varys felt it safer that way, should their deception be discovered. Before he left, Tyrion gave Varys the Hound's bloody cloak that Shae found in Sansa's room, telling him that Bronn brought it to him as proof Sandor Clegane was indeed dead and buried.

Bronn and Lollys maneuver through the throngs of mourners proceeding out of the Great Sept of Baelor. All the major houses of Westeros sent family representatives at the request of the Queen Regent. Bronn has no doubt if not for her efforts King Joffrey's funeral would be empty. as no one missed the boy king. Though the young man was despised in life, the sept fairly overflows with guests all eager to offer condolences to the young and beautiful Queen Margaery.

"Poor lass, she's buried two husbands before her seventeenth nameday," Bronn whispers to Lollys, who nods and sniffs into her handkerchief.

"I feel so blessed to have you, my lord," Lollys smiled sweetly at Bronn, bringing a happy grin to the hardened man's face. As they pass he notices several of the attendees raise their eyebrows at Lollys' obvious pregnancy and Bronn glares at them, prepared to give anyone who dares comment a thorough lashing. No one bothers the couple as they slowly advance toward the massive doors of the sept.

 _Best get the fuck out of here as quick as can be,_ Bronn muses as he spies Littlefinger sauntering over to them. Quickly Bronn steers Lollys away but Littlefinger and Ros still manage to cut them off next to the pews.

Though Lord Baelish's lips smiled, his eyes did not. "Leaving so soon, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater?"

"Aye, we'll be heading back to our rooms. The wife needs to rest," Bronn grunts, gently leading Lollys by the waist away from Littlefinger.

"Why Lady Lollys, you are looking positively radiant," Baelish smirked, bowing slightly and taking the young woman by the hand.

"Thank you, Lord Baelish," she bashfully smiles and instinctively rests her hand on her swollen belly.

"Would you excuse us for a moment, Lady Lollys? I need a word with Ser Bronn."

Ros steps forward. "Come with me, Lady Lollys. My, you are just glowing! Being with child certainly agrees with you! Have you a name for the babe yet?" She says merrily, leading her away from the men as Bronn's keen eyes follow them.

"Does that poor woman _really_ believe that child is yours?" Baelish asks drolly, his mouth curling into a grin.

"Lord of Haranhall or no, I'll still carve your liver right here on the steps of Great Sept Baelor if you fuck with me or my wife," Bronn growls, resting his hand on his knife. "I won't say it twice."

"I believe you would at that, Ser Bronn," Littlefinger simpers, fidgeting with his gold chain.

"What do you want, Littlefinger? You got Haranhall now, no need to begrudge me my place anymore," Bronn smirks, eying Lord Baelish's elaborate brocade tunic with disdain.

Simpering, Petyr narrows his eyes. "You didn't think you could hide such a secret from me, did you? I _know_ , Ser Bronn. Oh yes, I _know_ everything."

"Ooh! You know, do you? And everything, at that? Tall order, such a claim. Is that supposed to scare me?" Bronn scoffs, turning away from him. "Fuck your games. Say what you mean, man, and be done with it."

"I know you held Tyrion at your castle. Varys isn't the only one with spies," Petyr leans in close.

Sighing, Bronn shakes his head and laughs long and hard. "Lord Baelish, I do believe one of those ills that's peculiar to frequenting whorehouses is affecting your mind. I haven't seen Tyrion since I left King's Landing. Besides, if you truly believed he was with me, the Lannisters would storm my place quick as you please."

"Well, that is true; except that I have yet to tell them. I hoped you and I might reach an _understanding_ before it comes to that."

"Aye, say you piece and be done with it," Bronn shrugs, careful to hide his growing alarm.

"I know you ran into the Hound on your travels through the Riverlands."

"Aye, I ran into him. Gambled with him some-heh, drank that big fucker under the table, too. What of it?"

"I know you saw him with the Stark girl. Do not deny it."

"I never ran into any girl named Stark. Plenty of whores but no highborn. She kin to Joff's former betrothed?" "Don't toy with me, Ser Bronn. You know very well who I mean. Sansa Stark."

"So you do mean Joff's get," Bronn shakes his head. "Poor sweet little thing, that lass was a good child. Crocodiles. What a bloody horrible way to go. Don't go thinking Robb Stark and his bitch of a mother hasn't heard of it yet, either."

Baelish's eyes narrow in anger. "I do believe you mean to say _Lady Catelyn Stark_."

"Aye, one in the same. She knows what the Lannisters did to her girl and make no mistake. I heard it all over the Kingsroad."

"Do not speak of her in such a way," Baelish hisses. "She is a lady and I was raised in her father's household. The person you encountered with Tyrion, well, she's a much different woman after enduring a loveless marriage to Lord Eddard Stark."

"Well mayhaps her current mood isn't about dead Ned at all, now. Could be the old girl blames _you_ for her daughter's death. She didn't take so well to thinking Tyrion hurt her boy. Ever think of that?"

A flicker of self-doubt in the mockingbird's eyes reassures Bronn that Littlfinger has been diverted. "Look here: when last I saw the Hound, he was drunk off his arse and had a feisty whore on his lap in some shitty inn in the Riverlands."

"That certainly sounds like Clegane," Baelish concedes, avoiding any more mention of Catelyn Stark.

"A month past, I heard he died up north in a fight with the Mountain. My blacksmith's wife was of the Riverland clan and said the old chief told her kin they buried the miserable sod next to the Trident. Gave me proof, too."

"Proof, you say?"

"Aye, and none of your business at that."

"Of course not. I've heard more _convincing_ rumors that he married a beautiful red haired young woman he travels with. Certainly fits Sansa's description, does it not?"

"Indeed, that lass was as pretty as they come. But the child is _dead_ , Lord Baelish. I saw her dredged from the moat myself. You need to see the maester, man." Tisking, Bronn looks him over. "Clegane may have married before he died, though, I'll give you that. Come to think of it, he said he was on his way to see his bastard son and the whore of a mother, too. Might be she's the redhead in question."

"Rest assured, Lord Bronn, whatever deception you are planning I _will_ find out. I have men on Clegane's trail as we speak."

"Good luck with that," Bronn laughs derisively. "Unless you got spies in the Seven hells, that is. You don't, do you?"

Ros returns with Lollys on her arm. "My lord, I must lie down. Our child is quite active. May we go now?" Lollys asks Bronn softly.

"Aye, love, we'll go to our rooms straightaway. I'm done here," he says, looping her arm through his own while shaking his head at Littlefinger.

"Did he say if the Hound has the Stark girl?" Ros cautiously asks, following behind Baelish.

"Never mind that. Go to the carriage and wait for me." Baelish frowns, moving toward Varys as the last few mourners leave the sept.

Raising his eyebrow, Varys turns to face him. "The first to arrive, the last to leave-such is the way of the mockingbird. How have you been since I last saw you?"

"Since last you saw me? Or since last I saw you?" Baelish counters.

"No matter. That bit of yours never gets old, by the way. I have heard the most interesting bit of news. It seems many here are well aware of your _enduring fondness_ , shall we say, for Lord Eddard's daughter. An abiding affection carried over from your softness for her mother, no doubt."

"Sansa's death was a great loss."

"Such a pity! That beautiful sweet child died a death more fitting for well, a _mockingbird_ , for one." Varys says with an ill-concealed smirk.

"You know where the Hound is, don't you?" Petyr seethes. "Where are you hiding him? It makes sense now. After all, you are brothers in mutilation, are you not?"

Nonplussed, Varys tilts his head as he regards the man. "You are rather limited, Lord Baelish. I have not seen nor heard anything about Clegane since the Blackwater. And why should I seek the Hound? A little bird brought me proof of his death."

Curious, Baelish leans in. "Would that be Ser Bronn?"

Chuckling, Varys shakes his head. "Ser Bronn has nothing of interest to tell me and why would a former sellsword offer me anything free of cost?"

"Indeed. Why would one of your little birds bring you such?"

"Such a gesture curries quite a bit of favor with Tywin Lannister, Lord Baelish."

"I cannot believe Sansa Stark is dead. In fact, I am certain she is alive and with the Hound."

"Oh, indeed she is with him. In death, that is. Your grief has blunted your instincts."

"Yes, grief," Baelish replies absently.

Intrigued, Varys steps closer. "Grief or _obsession_ , my good man? Grief and fear are strange and yet constant bedfellows, I find. An area of expertise with you, I understand."

Biting his lip, Petyr turns sharply away from Varys, averting his eyes from the Spider's sharp gaze.

"It is said people are never more insecure when they are obsessed by fear. In your case it would seem you are afraid you will never possess Lady Catelyn and her daughter, by extention, as you once dreamed."

"Careful, Spider," Petyr mutters low.

"Is that why you had Lord Stark killed? To leave the Stark girl open to your advances? Really, Lord Baelish, your unwillingness to let go of the child borders on the depraved, even for a man such as yourself. It makes one wonder if you may share a somewhat closer connection than I previously thought?"

"I've had enough verbal jousting for one day, Varys," Baelish says through gritted teeth, hurrying out of the sept.

Chuckling, a small smile plays on Varys' lips as he watches Lord Baelish leave. "Careful, Mockingbird," he whispers.


	40. Sansa's Side/The Dream Revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your comments and reviews! Sorry this is late but I went on vacation :) 
> 
> Now that I have reached this point in my tale, I would ask my readers to take a moment and tell me if you think it would be better to continue or stop here and begin a second part to this story. Thank you for your help :D

Long after Sandor finally dozed off, his words about her family troubled Sansa, robbing her of sleep. His demeanor, dejected attitude and suffering with wine sickness worried her deeply as she gently stroked his hair and mulled over the events of the previous night.

After they ate, she tenderly kissed and caressed him thoroughly. Sandor's eyes were rimmed with red, she noticed, and he still tasted and smelled heavily of wine. "I need to rest first, wife," he muttered, caressing her lower lip with his thumb. "How did I ever manage to get a beauty like you?"

"Sandor, I chose to go with you because I love you. I have loved only you. Nothing will change that," she whispered to him.

"And I you, Sansa," he replied, gingerly settling down beside her.

"Let me hold you, my love," she said, removing her shift and drawing him into her arms. Sheepishly he relented, snuggling between her breasts and quickly falling into a deep sleep.

All through the morning hours her mind raced with questions as she held him. What could her father have said to him? When would he finally allow her to learn the nature of their conversation? She does not want to press him in his current state, but Sansa is desperate for answers. A deep fear has settled over her, knowing that her father does not wish Sandor to reveal his message to her just yet. Then there was the matter of his drinking.

She had been angrier than she could have imagined as she recalled his episodes of drinking sickness during their conversation. _Why should it be thus? It is not as though this affliction is unheard of-in fact, many women in the north had husbands who suffered from it._ His behavior affected her, too, but wasn't such the way of husbands and wives? Why should this problem feel so differently to her? After all they have endured together, she fears this could be the one thing they would not be able to overcome.

 _I will not lose him to this sickness; I won't! Father has shown me our future together. I saw our babe and our home made of logs along the water. I will not give up. I will fight for my beloved, as he has fought for me._ Watching her husband sleeping beside her, Sansa notices dark circles have formed under his eyes. Brushing his hair away from his forehead, she tenderly kisses him several times and strokes his back.

Even in rest, Sandor appears anguished: his face is tense, and he is gripping his fists tightly. Soft moans come from his throat and he has awakened her more than once by restlessly kicking at the bed linens. Sadly regarding him, she is not sure if she should mention her own feelings later on, or if they should even talk any more of his sickness. After some thought she decides she will not bring it up to him when he awakens but instead will allow him to mention it in his own time.

The orange light of the late afternoon sunshine awakens him. Grunting, Sandor holds his head and swears under his breath. His head is pounding in time with his own heartbeat. Upon sitting up, his stomach lurches from a wave of nausea. "Fucking blinding, that sun is. Close the curtains, wife. My head hurts like the Seven hells."

"You are in pain, dearest?" Sansa asks, rubbing his shoulders. "I am sorry."

"Only winesick," he mutters before vomiting into a nearby basin.

"Oh, love! Let me help you!" Sansa cries out, holding his head. "What can I do?"

Chuckling darkly, Sandor looks up at her through bloodshot eyes. "I can lose my breakfast just fine without your help, lass. I've been doing this for years. Go back to sleep."

After regarding him a moment, Sansa rises and pulls on her gown. "No, I think not. I am going for a walk; perhaps I will find you some herbs to settle your stomach. I shall return shortly."

"Don't bother the old man, Sansa, for herbs and such," he growls a warning, grabbing his head at the sound of his own voice. "I don't need a maester for such as this. It isn't fatal, thank the gods, just makes a man wish he was dead. Leave me be."

"I am surprised to see you so ill. After having suffered from your affliction for so long, I would think you would not be," Sansa thoughtfully comments while placing a cool damp rag on his neck. "I-I thought men who used wine in such a way grew used to it."

"Well, I haven't had any spirits for a bit so it's like starting over," he grunts. "Damn me, I'm as sick as a greenboy. I can't believe I just threw up in front of you. The honeymoon's over for sure now," he tries to jest.

Shaking her head, Sansa ties on her boots. "My love, I am not nearly as squeamish as you seem to think." Brushing his hair away from his face, she hands him the cup of willow bark tea and bids him to drink. "This will ease the pain in your head. I will not seek Elder brother out. But sick or not, you will not tell me who I may talk to. If I should cross his path I do wish to speak with him. I need not mention you are winesick. Considering his own history, I doubt it would come as a surprise, though. You spoke to him yourself last night, remember?"

"Of course I do. Come here and let me tie on your gown, I'm not that bad off," he grumbles, tightly yanking the binding. "Mind my words, Sansa. My head is raging and I'm not in the mood for his preaching."

"You are never in the mood to hear him," Sansa says quietly. "Only when it suits you, and then you seek him out and expect him to listen to you. It is a very one-sided friendship."

"Bugger that. I don't want to listen to him, you hear? Or you either," he manages to bark out before vomiting again.

"Yes, my love. I will leave you to empty your stomach in peace," she whispers sadly, kissing his damp forehead before heading outside. "I love you, Sandor, no matter how mean and irritable you may be at present."

Before he responds she hurries outside. The afternoon air carries a wintry chill but Sansa does not mind. In Winterfell she often took long walks to ease her mind, though in her girlhood she never had the challenges she faces now as a woman grown.

Her anger at Sandor has taken her by surprise. While she has a certain pity for his circumstances, she also blames him and finds herself disgusted by his weakness. Longing to speak with Elder brother, she trudges up and down the coastline, waiting for him to appear so she may keep her word. After a while she spies him in the garden picking vegetables for the evening meal.

"Elder brother," she waves with a tentative smile.

"Good afternoon child. I thought you would be asleep with your husband still," he smiles, taking her hands into his own. Seeing her distressed expression, he asks, "Are you quite well?"

"I am only a bit tired. Sandor, however, is quite miserable. I did not think he would become so ill, considering he was alert earlier this morning."

Chuckling, he nods. "Poor fellow. I've been in that position more times that I can recall. He was alert, yes, but that does not mean his body will not punish him for the wine he consumed. Sandor will have a ways to go this evening and most likely not want any supper. I would be happy to escort you to the dining hall."

"Well, I am not sure. He is rather-"

"Sick? Yes, and I imagine that is an understatement to say the least. He is most violently ill, my dear, is he not?" Watching Sansa's worried expression, he adds, "Do not fret, it is no secret. It is to be expected and it will pass rather quickly. No doubt he is in quite a foul mood as well, even by Sandor's standards."

Sadly, Sansa slowly assents. "Indeed he is very sick and in quite a foul mood as well. I am glad to hear it will not last long, as he is unable to keep down food or water."

"Ah yes, I remember it very well. I certainly was miserable enough when I went through it. My poor wife," Elder brother tisks. "I have much to make up to her in the afterlife."

"Oh, the gods will see to it, I am sure," Sansa smiles weakly, patting his hand. "I had no idea you suffered so. Forgive me, but you went through this before you became a brother of the Seven?"

"Yes, many years hence, when my wife was about to give birth. All of my battle experiences caught up with me once I learned our child was on the way-a most inconvenient time, indeed."

"Do you-do you think it is wise to put off bringing forth children until Sandor feels better?" Hastily she adds, "If having a family seems to worsen it, maybe we should wait."

"It is not just the promise of family, Lady Sansa. Any amount of stress, good or bad, can bring it on-only the gods know why. Have you been, ahem, preventing a baby since you were wed?"

"I am not sure Sandor would like me discussing such with any man other than him," Sansa murmurs cautiously. The young woman knows full well the Seven consider it sinful to drink moon tea; she learned that much in the Red Keep from Cersei and Shae.

"You know the Seven's belief about moon tea and such preventive measures, Sansa?" He asks, raising his eyebrow.

"Yes, Elder brother. It is a sin," Sansa repeats by rote, just as she and Arya did for Septa Mordane.

Chuckling, he nods. "Very good, your septa would be proud."

Blushing, Sansa smiles. "Forgive me, it is a force of habit."

"Now then, tell me what do _you_ believe? Do you believe it is a sin, Lady Sansa?"

Setting her shoulders, Sansa shakes her head. "Pray, forgive me, Elder brother but I do not. The old gods teach us it is wrong to start a family before you are ready, to the extent possible, of course. Such restrictions are why there are many bastards born, my father would say." Frowning, she pauses, remembering how her mother treated Jon.

No doubt her mother's faith in the Seven at least played a part in how she treated her half- brother. As a woman grown and married, Sansa has a newfound appreciation for her lady mother's tolerance of her father's bastard born son growing up alongside her true born children.

"You speak of your half-brother, am I correct?"

"I did not know you were aware of my family's more _personal_ challenges." Sansa bristles.

"Forgive me, my lady, I did not mean to offend you. Before you were born, your father's situation was common knowledge among the Baratheon knights at court after Robert's Rebellion. King Robert had a way of talking after indulging in fine wine."

Sansa remembers how each night he stayed at Winterfell, King Robert was drunk as well as at the tourney of the Hand. He was loud, coarse, and vulgar and chased any woman nearby. Sansa is grateful that Sandor is not so bad by comparison.

"Of course, Elder brother; I had not thought of that." Pausing, Sansa gathers her thoughts before continuing. "Yes, my mother and half-brother both suffered because of the painful situation surrounding his birth. I do not think if my father's _mistress_ had used moon tea that it would have been the greater sin. It would have spared my mother a great deal of unhappiness, though that does not change the fact that my father broke his wedded vows. I also believe a man's actions are just as accountable to the gods as a woman's in these matters. What do you think, Elder brother?"

"As a man of the Seven, I have been taught that it is a sin to use moon tea, even greater than producing a bastard. However, as a man who was married in heart though not in the sight of the gods and who produced a child from that union, I must agree with _you_. I believe many of these rigid interpretations of the Seven stem from the lack of experience in intimate matters on the part of septons and septas, though saying such may be sacrilegious," he says, making the seven pointed star over his chest.

Startled, Sansa stares at him, speechless. _Elder brother admits that he does not agree with some of the teachings of his faith? Septa Mordane would have fainted if she heard him right now._

"It may surprise you to learn that I ascribe to a great many of the teachings of the old gods. Though I cannot officially support the use of moon tea, I can show others which herbs to pick and in what quantities to use them so it will be effective," he smiles softly at her.

Blushing, Sansa nods. "Indeed, I am both surprised and relieved to hear it. You are most compassionate. I thank you."

"Lady Sansa, I have suffered a great deal in my life. I would hate to think it was all for naught and that I would not be able to use the lessons I learned to help others and extend compassion whenever possible."

"Was your experience with this wine sickness so very severe, dearest Elder brother?" Sansa asks pensively, placing her hand on his arm. "I am glad to find you quite recovered. It raises my hopes for Sandor's health."

"It was most severe. My wretchedness has stayed in my memory all this time. See, the initial wine sickness from overindulgence disappears over time as one continues to drink excessively. After some time it takes more and more of the substance to achieve the desired drunkenness. Once the individual stops drinking, however, the body rebels rather violently when fermented beverages are consumed. Such is a poison, you know, in large amounts."

Remembering Ser Dontos on Joffrey's nameday, she slowly nods in agreement. "Yes, I have seen it firsthand. My father would say such to us as well. He told my brothers, as I recall, after he allowed them their first wine."

"Did they listen to him?"

Laughing, Sansa shakes her head. "Oh, no, dear me, they did not! They were very ill. My mother was quite furious and made them say penance for days after they recovered."

Chuckling, Elder brother nods. "Such is the way of men, lass. It was good of your mother to try but some things a man needs to learn on his own."

"Would you say such is the case with Sandor?" Sansa asks quietly. "I believe he has an affliction my father and maester used to see quite often in men who once served as soldiers. The wine illness seems to follow it."

"Sandor is a man who has endured great suffering and has committed a great deal of sins in his life. He needs to follow this path of recovery and redemption on his own, Lady Sansa."

"I see," Sansa whispers gloomily.

"Make no mistake, he definitely needs your help. For all his grousing, he wants you beside him, believe me. I know I put my own wife through plenty, dear love. Men need the strength of women at such times, you know. The gods mean for it to be thus between husband and wife, though you cannot take this journey with him or for him, for that matter," Elder brother says gravely, handing her a bundle of herbs. "All you can do is love him."

"Yes, I think I understand," she answers, inhaling the crisp scent of the herbs. "What is this? It smells so good."

"This is peppermint. Brew it strong in a tea and have him sip it every quarter hour, even if he brings it up. It will help with the nausea."

Sighing, he rises to his feet and bids Sansa to walk with him. "The old gods teach that such an ailment is a malady usually affecting men and stems from a traumatic event. The excessive use of wine comes with it, as men usually use it as a means of coping with the fear from the illness."

"Yes, yes that is exactly what my Father said!" Sansa nods eagerly. "Dear me, how terrible. What is the name of the affliction?"

"Well, Lady Sansa, I regret to say I do not know. I was trained under the Seven, who teach quite a different belief on using wine and spirits in such a way."

"Oh?" Sansa frowns. "They do not believe that such is a disease?"

"No, I am afraid they do not. The Seven see it as more of a moral failing stemming from a lack of faith," Elder brother begins cautiously, watching Sansa closely as he speaks. "A weakness, one might say, that is to be overcome with prayer."

"A moral failing? A weakness?!" Sansa raises her voice in anger, her cheeks turning red at his words. "How can any ailment be a moral failing? The men who suffer are tormented souls in need of help! No one would choose such! Anyone who thinks they enjoy such use of wine should look in on my husband this very moment and they would see their error most plainly indeed."

"Between you and me, I could not agree more, my dear," Elder brother whispers low, glancing over at Septon Meribald working nearby. "Especially since I have the very same affliction myself. It is a daily struggle, I assure you. Prayer most certainly can help but it is not the only requirement for recovery. It is only one of many things needed to control the illness."

"Oh, I do believe in prayer as healing, Elder brother. But I cannot comprehend the septons would teach such is a moral failure! No one would say grayscale is a weakness to be cured by prayer alone. Disease is disease, is it not?"

"Yes, I agree completely in spite of my training, though you must understand my position is precarious in such matters."

"My husband admittedly is not a religious man. Sandor has never claimed to be and has refused to say any vows with which he does not agree. He has done terrible things in his life that he regrets deeply. Yet, unlike many, he never lies about it. It is more than I have known many knights to do, for all of their vows!" Sansa fumes, stepping back. Sansa suffered at the hands of such so-called faithful men and knows all too well how little thought many give to such things. "Is not lying more of a moral failure than being sick?"

"Well, lying most certainly can be a moral failure at times and not advisable under most circumstances," Pausing, Elder brother stares up at the sky. "Sandor may not be a religious man by any means but I have observed he has a certain faith, if you will. I believe he holds to his own code of honor and is far more committed to honesty than most men. He honors his wedded vows and is most devoted to you; anyone can plainly see that."

"Indeed he is! I am most fortunate to have such a husband and I would never give him up, for all his difficulties. Does not the faith of the Seven account for such? Surely practicing the faith is more important than just claiming belief in the gods."

"I agree, Sansa. I have made it a matter of prayer many times. Though some of the teachings of my faith do not reflect it, I believe the Seven have a deep understanding of us as individuals and judge us accordingly. Ours is an imperfect faith, you know, and as a brother representing the faith of the Seven, I must teach as I have been taught."

"Forgive me, Elder brother, but can you not help us as to your own understanding of the affliction and not solely as a religious advisor? You are a skilled healer and the gods surely would understand. It would be a great act of mercy, do you not agree?" Sansa shakily beseeches him.

"Yes, for I ascribe to both the teachings of the old gods and the new. However, we must keep such information to ourselves, agreed?" He whispers in her ear.

"Agreed. Oh thank you, Elder brother. I-I so desperately long for Sandor to get the help he needs. I just know the gods will bless you for it! No matter our faiths, is not compassion and love the two most important traits we have as human beings?" Sansa cries, clinging to him.

"Yes, my child, which is why you must not fret any longer. I will help Sandor in any way I can. You must understand, though, that while I may help him, he needs to go through certain things on his own. I can only offer guidance. He must make his own changes and find his own way. Understand?"

"Yes, of course, Elder brother," Sansa nods sadly. "Oh, if I could take such misery from him, I would. It hurts to see him suffer even more than if I went through it myself."

"I know, lass, I know. You have great compassion and a loving heart, and no doubt the gods have helped you because of your true and pure nature."

"I am not as good as all that," Sansa says quietly, shame clouding her face as she fidgets with the peppermint leaves in her hands.

"And why would you say that?" Elder brother smiles kindly, taking her arm and looping it through his own.

"I-I find myself so very angry with him. His drunkenness has affected me, too, though I cannot see why it should. It-it scares me and I often feel, well, alone," Sansa sheepishly replies. "I hope the gods will forgive me. I was raised to be more understanding of those who are ill."

"Of course, my dear. Yours is a natural reaction to such an affliction. In my experience, illness of any kind affects both people in a marriage. Why should this be any different?"

"Well, I do not know. I feel guilty about it, nevertheless," Sansa says, unable to meet Elder brother's honest gaze.

"You must not feel such, lass. My wife said similar things during our time together. Though it is an sickness, it is one he must learn to control. It will take time for him to learn and so you must discuss your feelings with him. Sandor needs to hear that his actions have consequences for others as well as himself. He has already expressed the desire to change. It is not your place to make him feel he is not responsible."

"But he is suffering so much as it is-shall I wait to speak with him?"

"I would recommend waiting until he is no longer violently ill, but I would not suggest postponing the discussion for very long. Sandor needs you, Sansa but you cannot make this easier for him, nor should you try. It is not loving to cover over this part of his affliction for him. Sandor must face it-all of it-and learn to deal with it from his experience. All we can do is offer understanding at this period of time."

"Thank you, Elder brother. Allow me to prepare his tea and then I will join you for supper."

"As you wish," he smiles, bowing low.

Upon returning to the cabin, Sansa finds Sandor even sicker than before. "Gods save me," he mutters while she empties the soiled basin. "Fuck, I forgot how sick I can get from drink."

"I have some peppermint leaves for you, my love. I am brewing the tea as we speak and I will set it here beside you. Try to sip a little of it. It will ease your stomach pain," Sansa says quietly, placing a cup beside him.

"No, no I don't want it. Take it away."

"Just try a bit. I am going down to eat supper. I'll bring you back some dry bread as well."

"You're leaving me here?" Sandor asks weakly before retching, his empty stomach heaving at the mere mention of food.

"You said you wished to be alone." Sansa comments lightly, watching him.

"Aye that I did."

"Besides, I am hungry and it would not be kind to eat in front of you in such a state," she says, wiping down his bare chest with a cool rag.

"Go on then," he mutters, waving his hand toward the door.

After supper, Sansa returns to the cabin with dried biscuits. Sandor is sitting up looking somewhat better. "Has your stomach finally settled?" She asks, setting the biscuits on the table in front of him.

"Yes, lass. Come here," he grumbles low. Sandor pulls her close; Sansa immediately notices he has bathed and smells of mint. "Forgive me, I did not wish for you to see me…like that. It came on rather-well, unexpectedly."

"I hope I will never again see you in such a state," Sansa says softly, twirling a lock of his hair in her fingers before kissing him. "It hurts me to see you so ill."

"Fuck, I know that now, damn me. It won't happen again."

"Are you sure you can promise such a thing? From what I understand, setbacks are normal for this affliction."

"Well, I'll do my damnedest to make sure that it doesn't," he growls low.

Rising, Sansa brings him a fresh cup and fills it with peppermint tea and places a biscuit on a plate.

"Here, love, try to eat a little bit. Just a small bite at a time, now. It seems to be the way that my brothers were able to keep it down after indulging at Robert's feast."

"Your brothers got shit-faced drunk?" Sandor laughs, wincing as his head throbs anew. "I don't recall that. I would've paid a stag to see it. Your lady mother must have hit the roof."

"Indeed, she did," Sansa smiles softly at him. "The whole castle was in an uproar."

"I'll bet." Sandor devilishly grins at her while nibbling at the biscuit.

"My love, I made you something while you were speaking to Elder brother."

Curious, Sandor looks up at her suddenly, causing his head to throb once more. "Did you now?" He asks, rubbing his temples.

"Yes," she blushes, retrieving a piece of dark red material from her skirt. "On our first wedded day, I gave you a marriage favor. Now I will give you my favor to wear as I wished to do the day of Joffrey's nameday tourney, for a different kind of battle."

Snorting, Sandor fingers the material while closely examining the wristlet. "Is this-is this your hair?" He asks, astounded. Raising it to his nose, Sandor finds it is indeed Sansa's lavender scented hair braided into a wristlet large enough for him to wear.

"Yes, it is a lovelock. Have you never heard of this northern tradition?"

"No, I can't say that I have. I've seen them on some of the northerners at Winterfell, though, in the practice yard," he says quietly, tenderly stroking the fine red braid attached to a black leather cord.

"You wear the hair of your loved one on the heart side to show devotion. I made it so you would remember that you never need face this illness alone, my love. When you see it, I want you to remember that I am forever devoted to helping you, come what may."

Swallowing hard, Sandor finally manages, "It-it is most beautiful, wife. I would not have you cut your beautiful mane on my account, lass." Choked with emotion, he shakes his head slightly, struggling for words. "Well go on. Tie it on, then, love."

Smiling broadly, Sansa kisses and then ties the lovelock on his large wrist. "Perhaps it will strengthen you, my love."

"Aye, that it will, Sansa, my beautiful little bird," he whispers, slowly brushing his mouth against hers before kissing her deeply.

* * *

For a week after that day, Sandor and Sansa speak very little of his illness. Sansa allows him to reveal the details in his own time, in his own way. Every morning they rise early and walk along the shore, sometimes speaking of it, other times just quietly enjoying the time alone. Remembering her father and Elder brother's words, Sansa patiently listens to all Sandor says, as well as shares her own fears with him.

A week to the day after the Lannister soldiers departed, a rider races up to the septry on a lathered courser. From the field Sandor and Sansa hear the young man shout, "Septon! Septon! The war is over for Robb Stark!"

Staring at Sandor's troubled expression, a cold chill shudders through Sansa's body. "Tell me, Sandor, is this what-what Father told you of?"

"Yes, love, I believe it is. Come here, lass, hold on to me, now," he rasps low, taking her hands in his.

Septon Meribald waves the man over. "This is the Quiet Isle, young man, or have you forgotten? We do not shout here. Now, tell me what news you bring."

"Robb Stark and his lady mother were killed three days past at the Frey and Tully wedding."

"Killed, you say?" Elder brother asks, casting a worried glance toward a rapidly paling Sansa. Sandor takes her by the shoulders and whispers to her, but soon she collapses to her knees, sobbing and struggling to catch her breath.

"Yes, Lord Walder violated all the sacred laws of hospitality by having his men slaughter the small Stark host after the bedding. Lord Edmure and his bride were unaware of the entire event."

"That is sacrilege on the part of the Freys," Septon Meribald shakes his head. "The gods will see them punished for their treachery."

"There is more, Septon," the young man pauses, staring at the young woman weeping not far away.

Sandor steps forward. "Shut your mouth, boy. You're upsetting my wife. I'll take her away-then you finish your story. Another word before that and I'll cut out your tongue."

"Yes, ser," the young man nervously nods as Sandor lifts Sansa in his arms and carries her to the cabin. Once the couple is out of sight, he asks, "Is the missus alright? She looked quite ill."

Ignoring the question, Elder brother steps closer. "What else, lad? Tell us truly."

"They cut off King Robb's head and replaced it with the head of Grey Wind, his direwolf, and threw his lady mother Catelyn Stark into the river after cutting her throat. It was meant as an insult to both the northern and Tully traditions. Word is that without the promise of protection from Tywin Lannister, Lord Walder and Roose Bolton would never have gone along with the massacre."

"The Seven bless King Robb and Lady Catelyn and keep them in the seven heavens," Septon Meribald says quietly, making the seven pointed sign over his heart.

Elder brother nods and makes the sign over his own heart. "Even if this indeed is the end of the war, there must not be rejoicing over the manner in which it took place. Such wickedness will not go unpunished, lad, believe that."

"I do believe, Septon, I do," the young man nods. "Forgive me, brothers, but I am sent to spread the word at the order of the Lannisters,' he says, kicking his horse in the flanks.


	41. Mourning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remembering how distraught she was after Ned was killed leaves Sandor fraught with anxiety. That day she truly seemed like a little bird that tumbled out of its nest, too weak and broken to help itself. From that day forward the nickname that started out as ridicule took on a whole new meaning for the scarred man.

* * *

“Sansa,” Sandor quietly rasps. “Little bird, talk to me.” It has been a week since his beloved wife heard of Lady Catelyn and Robb’s death and three days since she has spoken, slept or ate. Sansa has grown weak, pale and bears a hollow, empty expression in her red rimmed eyes.

Remembering how distraught she was after Ned was killed leaves Sandor fraught with anxiety. She was so small laying in the black bedroom, her eyes darkened by bluish circles from crying herself to sleep. He had to lift her out of bed so she would dress. Sansa struggled feebly against him, her grief rendering her wan and frail in his arms. That day she truly seemed like a little bird that tumbled out of its nest, too weak and broken to help itself. From that day forward the nickname that started out as ridicule took on a whole new meaning for the scarred man.

He had wanted to slit Joffrey’s throat ear to ear when he witnessed her distressed state. It recalled him to his own crushing grief when his dear sister passed on; his mother followed not long after. Sandor’s world became forever darkened by losing them both in quick succession. _It’s only been eight moons since she lost her father. I hope the Little bird’s wolf-like strength will see her through this tragedy, too._

Elder brother stopped by the cabin earlier, offering prayers she did not seem to hear. Over the past week he has brought milk of the poppy and lemon balm tea to ease her suffering, though so far Sansa has refused it. Staring out at the deep green water, his bereaved wife did not even acknowledge the holy man’s presence.

“Has she spoken at all?” Elder brother worriedly asked Sandor as they walk the path back to the septry.

“No, not a word,” he replies, running his hands through his hair. “She doesn’t even cry. She just stares out that damned window.”

Sighing, Elder brother nods solemnly. “I know this state all too well, Sandor. I stayed in the very same condition for months after my wife and precious babe went to the afterlife.”

“Months? She can’t go on like this for months!” Sandor fumes as panic grips his heart. He remembers that he did not speak for two moons after Gregor burned him, but only partly because his mouth was affected.  Gregor had taken his words from him, along with his childhood and his identity and Sandor no longer had anything to say. The emotional and physical trauma had left him an empty shell, and he cannot bear for Sansa to suffer the way he did.

“We must give her space but we will not allow her to continue in this manner much longer,” Elder brother replies quietly, watching as Sandor mulls over his words.

“Well, just what the fuck am I supposed to do about it? I’ve tried all I know to get to her to talk, eat and rest,” Sandor barks impatiently, the strain of worry seeping into his already coarse timbre. Elder brother pats his shoulder understandingly.

“I did what she wanted. I left her alone with her thoughts for the first few days, just sitting nearby and watching her,” Sandor shrugs. “Might be I made a mistake, at that.”

He leaves out that once she gave up eating and sleeping, he carried her to bed and wrapped himself around her, all the while silently entreating her father to help her. So far nothing has changed and though he struggles to hide it, the man is sick with worry. Sandor would give anything if she would only look at him again.

“There is no right or wrong way to handle such situations, lad. Just keep talking to her whether she responds or not.”

Gesturing to Sandor’s burned side, he adds, “You learned how to survive, Sandor, and so will she. Judging by those burns, I’m willing to venture you once had someone dear to you offer you the same solace.”

Remembering his sweet sister, Sandor nods. “Aye, my sister, Sarah. She sang to me, bathed my wounds and talked my ear off,” Sandor rasps, staring out at the fields. In his exhaustion and worry the words slip off his tongue, and the man wishes he could take them back as soon as they leave his mouth.

Smiling, Elder brother pats his arm. “Your sister’s love saw you through it. And your love will see Sansa through this, too, I promise you. Physical wounds and wounds of the heart are not so very different, Sandor. In my experience they both respond to time, care and love in equal measure.”

Observing the outward manifestation of his cherished wife’s suffocating grief this past week, Sandor isn’t so sure that Sansa will respond the way Elder brother claims. “I want to believe you, holy man, I do. She’s just so hurt. Damn me, I don’t know what she needs from me.”

“Love is the only thing that will reach her now. You must ask the gods for patience,” he says, ignoring Sandor’s derisive snort. “Her heart will open to you again, lad. Right now she is too afraid and hurt to let you in just yet.”

He knows that much is true, for anger and grief closed his heart for the whole of his life after his burns. Only Sansa’s love and strength touched his soul and once he experienced it, he longed to put his misery away and let her in. It was difficult, even painful, but he has never regretted it.

When he returns to the cabin, she is still gazing out at the water, her expression blank. An errant tear inches down her right cheekbone but she does not wipe it away. Sansa has been clinging to the doll her father gave her when she first came to King’s Landing and carried during their escape.

Kneeling before her, Sandor takes her hands in his. “Little bird, talk to me. You’ve shut me out long enough, now,” he says softly. “I just want to hear your sweet voice again.”

Glancing down at their entwined fingers, he sees her swallow hard several times. “I have nothing to say,” she weakly replies, absently wiping her face with the handkerchief he gave her after Joffrey killed her father.

“That’s never stopped you from chirping before, lass.” He teases lightly, the sound of her voice bringing a glimmer of hope to his anxious heart. “We’ve talked about nothing many a time, haven’t we? Songs and knights and such?”

Nodding slowly, Sansa purses her lips, the corner of her mouth curling into a whisper of a smile even as fresh tears trickle down her pale cheeks. “Yes, I suppose we have.”

“Well, let’s go talk about nothing, then,” Sandor rises and holds his hand out to her, willing her to come to him.

After a moment’s hesitation she agrees, placing her trembling hand into his. He discovers she is unsteady on her feet as she rises.

“That’s it, Little bird,” he rasps softly. “What say we get some fresh air? The day is very fine out.”

Casting her eyes downward she nods again, still clutching the doll while allowing him to drape her cloak around her shoulders. Silently he wraps his arm around her waist and leads her toward the shore.

As they slowly move along the shoreline, Sandor senses the curious looks of the brothers working in the fields but he pays them no mind. His Little bird has left the nest at last, that is all that matters to him.

Leading her toward the water, he moves behind her and envelops her small frame, willing her to feel his strength. The rise and fall of her breath slows as she stares at their reflection in the white peaks rippling at the water’s edge. Squeezing her eyes closed, she quickly turns away, hiding her face in Sandor’s shoulder.

“Still can’t bear to look at me?” Sandor mutters low, her behavior puzzling him.

“Turn me loose!” Sinking to her knees, she covers her face with her hands. “I-I cannot bear to look at myself just yet.”

Shaking his head in exasperation, Sandor rests his hands on her shoulders. “You’re still beautiful, Little bird. It’s nothing a hairbrush won’t fix. Seven hells, don’t fret over your looks now.”

“You don’t understand-I look at myself and I see…I see my mother!” Sansa wails, her voice weak from lack of use. Sandor reaches for her but she angrily rebuffs him, beating her fists against the earth beneath her. “I do not want comforting! I am angry-so very angry, Sandor! Why can’t you just leave me be?!”

Biting back his reply, he steps away. His heart breaks for her, although he knew this outburst was coming. Sandor remembers all too well the day he finally released his own anger after his sister died. _At least she feels something again._ _She needs to go through this, as bloody painful as it is._

“Why, Sandor? Why did this happen?” Sobbing, she lays down at his feet, oblivious to the wet mud soaking through her gown.

 _It happened because your brother thought with his cock and not his brain. He wouldn’t listen to those who warned him and was foolish enough to think the Freys would let a slight against them pass by. Anyone with any sense knows that Walder Frey wouldn’t forget it, and Tywin saw an opportunity._ Sighing heavily, he kneels down to her. “Sansa, I don’t think you want me to answer that.”

“Why did Father not warn them-I…I cannot understand why he would tell _you_ and not them! If he had told Mother and Robb, maybe-”

“He tried, Little bird, he tried,” he rasps low, taking her into his arms. “He called to them many a time. Eddard explained it: he told me their rage and grief was so consuming it wouldn’t allow them to hear him.”

“But we could have at least tried to warn them!” Sansa shouts, pulling away from him. “We could have left for the Twins and-“

“No, Little bird, no!” Sandor says, grabbing her arm. “I said the very same thing to your father but Lord Eddard expressly forbade it. He wasn’t alone in saying so, either; your little hellion of a sister told me not to let you come as well.”

Snapping her eyes up to his, she blinks back her tears in surprise. “Arya? Truly-you saw Arya in the dream too?”

“Yes, her direwolf found your mother, lass,” Sandor affirms, carefully leaving out the details of Lady Catelyn’s condition. “She saw what took place through the eyes of the beast, just as she watched the fight with Gregor. Thankfully you were spared such a scene. Your father could not prevent it.”

“Arya saw the fight you had with your brother, too?”

“Yeah, or so she says. Said she brought down Gregor for _you_.  She told me not to let you come to the Twins.”

“Sandor, please, tell me exactly what she said,” Sansa whispers, grasping his hands and staring deep into his eyes in desperation.

“She said, ‘Go to Sansa, goodbrother; help her. Jaqen will help me. Father has told him’,” Sandor pauses, frowning as he recalls her words. “She said, ‘Jaqen is my friend. Keep Sansa away, Sandor. Don't let her come here’.”

“Oh, holy Seven, my poor sister!” Sansa sobs anew, falling against his chest. “How was she-did she seem like she was well taken care of?”

Closing his eyes, he tries to remember how Arya looked in his dream: she was scruffy, with short hair and wearing a squire’s outfit.

“She’s alright,” he says low. “A bit dirty but as I recall that was normal for her.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Sansa, by the time your father reached out to me, it was only a matter of days before it happened,” he says uneasily. “Even if we decided to make for the castle and rode Stranger into the ground, we would have only been half way to the Twins by the time of the wedding. I’m sorry.”

Clutching the doll to her chest, Sansa sobs out a mixture of frustration and grief, her cries ringing out in the stillness of the surrounding environs. Sandor looks around helplessly to see many of the brothers sneaking glances at them. Septon Meribald appears at the entrance of the septry carrying a smoldering thurible on a chain. Knitting his brows, he makes his way toward them with Elder brother following closely behind him.

“Your grief is making you ill, child. Please, allow me to pass incense over you in prayer for you and your deceased,” the septon says quietly. “It is the least we might do for you. It will strengthen your faith. I would be willing to have a service at the septry for your departed loved ones as well.”

“Look septon, I don’t know what’s in that thing you’re waving around, but-” Sandor protests, a clear warning tone in his voice. Sansa’s mourning has made him even more protective of her than usual and he will not tolerate anything that might further upset her.

“No, Sandor, it is alright,” Sansa says weakly. “Thank you, Septon Meribald-I think that such would be most-” she trails off, choking out a sob and wiping the tears from her face with a dirty hand.

Sighing, Sandor sits down in the mud with her and pulls her onto his lap. Taking out a handkerchief, he gently wipes her face and nods in assent toward the septon.

Bowing, Septon Meribald waves the thurible to and fro over both of them while entreating the Seven on their behalf. Scowling, Sandor watches him suspiciously but does not interrupt. When he is finished, the septon turns and goes back toward the sept without a word.

Elder brother silently kneels beside them, making the sign of the Seven over them.

“Sansa,” Sandor says quietly, “Do you want to go inside? There’s a chill in the air and you don’t want you to come down sick, lass.”

“Al-alright,” she stutters, burying her face in his chest.

“I’ll have some hot water brought to your directly and hot stones as well,” Elder brother says, hurrying back to the septry.

“Sansa, before we go inside, there is more,” Sandor hesitantly begins once Elder brother is out of sight. “First of all, let me start by saying that your father assured me your younger brothers are safe and healthy, and-“

“Bran and Rickon?” She says, looking up at him.

“Yes, love, they are safe and with the Reed family. Jojen and Meera are looking after the lads. Your father said you know them.”

“Oh, yes, Meera and Jojen! Thank the gods!” Sansa cries out and Sandor hears a shade of hope in her voice for the first time since she heard the news of her family. “Oh, that is a great relief! I have prayed for my brothers every day, husband.”

“But they aren’t at Winterfell anymore,” Sandor says low.

“No?” She asks, confused.

“No, they are in hiding. Your father said Theon Greyjoy betrayed the family and that he holds Winterfell right now.”

“What? He holds Winterfell-how could he do it? He was raised with us! Father treated him no differently than Jon or Robb. He should not even be there. He ought to have been with-with…” Sansa stops abruptly, remembering her brother is no longer with them.

“Theon wasn’t kin to you, Sansa, even if your Father treated him like one of the family.”  Unsure how to word his thoughts, Sandor pauses and clears his throat. “Some flesh and blood has done even worse to their own natural siblings.”

Stunned, she looks up at him, knowing he is referring to Gregor. “Yes, I know, I have seen it,” she responds sympathetically.

Taking her hands in his, he kneels down to look her in the eyes. “Your father doesn’t want me to seek revenge. I promised I wouldn’t risk it and that I would keep you safe.”

Taking his marriage favor out of his tunic, he places it over her wedded hand and covers it with his own. “I’ll kill him for it, lass. I swear it on our marriage and on every one of the gods, old and new. Mark my words, Sansa: if we ever cross Theon’s path, I see to it that he’s the sorriest man to ever walk the face of this gods-forsaken earth!” Sandor rasps as he removes it and returns it to its place over his heart before kissing her wedded ring.

Shakily she pulls him close and nuzzles into his neck. “Thank you,” she whispers against his skin. “I know you will give our family justice if given the chance.”

“Here, love, I’ll take you inside.” He says, placing the doll in her hand.

“Thank you. I hope my foolishness hasn’t ruined it.”

“There’s nothing foolish about grieving. I’ve done my share. As for your doll, it’s nothing a good bath won’t set to right. My sister used to wash out mine when I was a boy.”

“ _You_ had a doll?” Sansa gapes, momentarily forgetting her tears. 

“Aye that I did. Sarah made me a stuffed knight after Gregor burned me. She wanted to replace the wooden one I wanted so badly,” he says softly. “I held onto that thing the whole time I recovered. If you repeat that to anyone, I’ll deny it to the Seven hells.” Sandor laughs, the sound empty and short.

“My brother had one, too, just like this one but his had dark hair. I used to cry because he wouldn’t let me play with it even after he outgrew it. I wanted it because it reminded me of him.” Fidgeting with her handkerchief, she adds, “The boys wouldn’t play with me. I always wanted to play tea party or be the princess who was rescued. Of course, they wanted to play tourney instead,” she smiles faintly. “That is why Father gave me this one, I am sure.”

Sandor calls to mind that in his dream Sansa was wailing, kneeling in the muddy river bank while clutching her brother's body to her chest. _Bloody hells!_ He curses silently, turning away to control his emotions. _The doll reminds Sansa of Robb-it all came to pass, just as Eddard showed me._

“Come on, now, let’s go get out of these wet clothes,” he says, lifting her into his arms and carrying her back to their cabin.

“Sandor, Lady Sansa,” Elder brother greets them as they enter the room. “I have the bath filled with lavender water and I brought more milk of the poppy and lemonbalm tea. Elder McCann baked lemoncakes for Lady Sansa as well.”

“Many thanks Elder brother-these days it must seem like all you do around here is draw a bath and tend the ills of the Cleganes,” Sandor sets her down on a nearby chair and then examines the contents of the tincture bottle.

“That is my calling, Sandor. I am happy to help in any way I can.”

“I don’t know about this stuff, holy man.” Sandor sniffs the contents and then wrinkles his nose. He recalls seeing many women-wenches and ladies alike-dependent on the substance in King’s Landing.

“I understand your hesitation, Sandor, I do. In small doses it promotes sleep and alleviates anxiety. I only use it in extreme cases.” Elder brother responds, seeming to read his thoughts. “It will only be to get her through this part of mourning and help her rest.”

“Alright then, I suppose it won’t hurt her for just a bit.”

“You keep it on your person, Sandor,” Elder brother says quietly. “She is very despondent right now.”

“Hmph, I understand you,” Sandor frowns, putting it in the pocket of his tunic.

“Lady Sansa, I made this for you,” Elder brother turns to Sansa and holds out a plainly wrapped package.

After untying the string and paper, a small smile slowly appears on her face. “A prayer wheel. Look Sandor, isn’t it lovely?”

Grunting, Sandor nods.

“Thank you, Elder brother. I will make good use of it,” Sansa says tearfully.

Smiling, he claps his hands together. “I will leave you both to your ease now. Elder brother will drop by later with supper,” he says as he opens the door. “Try to make sure she eats a little something, Sandor-there’s a good lad,” he says quietly before closing it behind him.

Sandor gently removes her clothes and helps her into the bath before quickly shedding his own and joining her. Sighing deeply, Sansa submits to Sandor’s attentions, allowing him to bathe her as she did him after his dream. Eventually she relaxes and stops weeping. When he lifts her up to dry her off, she clings to him, unwilling to end their closeness.

Lifting her up with him, Sandor doesn’t comment on her behavior. Carefully he steps out of the bath and quickly dries her off before settling her on the bed under the furs. After wrapping a towel around his waist, Sandor prepares a cup of tea and a lemoncake on a plate.

“Here, love, try one of Elder McCann’s lemoncakes. Let’s see how they stack up against the ones in King’s Landing.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask you if you were hungry. I _told_ you to try a lemoncake,” he nudges her with a mischievous grin.

When she turns her head away from him, Sandor gently turns her back toward him. “Look, Little bird,” he rasps quietly, “No one knows better than me how easy it is to lay down and die of grief. But you know as well as I do that the world doesn’t stop just because something shitty happens. The world doesn’t give a fuck that we want to lay down and give up-it keeps right on turning.”

Sansa tries to move her chin away but Sandor holds firm. “No, you’re going to listen to me, now. I remember how you were when Joffrey killed Ned. I’m not going to let you make yourself sick over this.”

“Leave me be.”

“No, damn it,” he says a little more angrily than he intends. After a moment, he asks in a softer tone, “Why do you think your father gave you that dream in the blacksmith’s loft?”

Sansa shrugs and averts her eyes.

“Why do you think he showed you our log home beside the river with a view of the mountains? Why do you think he showed you our redheaded babe? Do you think it was just so you’d have a sound night’s sleep?” He persists, leaning down so she will look at him.

Drawing in a deep breath, Sansa tilts her head and swallows hard. “He knew what was coming. I suppose he did it so I would have hope.”

“Aye, and more than that. He was showing you that life goes on, that _your_  life would go on. Ned wanted to prove to you that we would live, that we would make it through winter to see our family and a home of our own. We’ve got a beautiful babe waiting for us: if you don’t eat you won’t live to see it.”

Nodding slowly, she assents. “You are right. I have to try, I guess. I should be grateful to Father that he gave us something to look forward to. I am most thankful he told you Bran and Rickon are safe and that Arya is being taken care of.”

“Well if you’re so thankful then, quit being stubborn and eat this damned lemoncake, will you?” Sandor barks, the twinkle in his eye betraying the intent behind his rough words.

“If you insist,” she says sheepishly, nibbling on the confection with a small smile.

“You and I both know all too well the pain won’t go away overnight,” he says quietly. “But you have something to live for Sansa and so do I.”

 

After eating two lemoncakes himself, Sandor lies down beside her and holds her close. Sansa falls into a deep sound sleep at last and, relieved, Sandor soon joins her.

* * *

Petyr Baelish stares out at the churning whitecaps of Blackwater Rush when a soft knock stirs him from his thoughts.

Ros pokes her head inside. “A young man says he wants to see you, milord. He claims to have some information you’ll want to hear about a certain _red headed_ lassie.”

“Bring him in,” he quickly says, rising to his feet. “You two, get out,” he hisses at two nude women reclining on the chaise. Motioning for Ros to step forward, he says through gritted teeth. “ _You_ may stay. Close the door.”

Biting her lip, Ros hesitates and looks around the room. Petyr yanks her closer, pinching her arm painfully. “Send him in _at once_ , I said.”

“Yes, milord.” Ros darts out and then hurriedly returns with a blushing young man on her arm.

Baelish looks him over thoroughly before asking, “What is your name, lad?”

“Anderly Lorch, ser.”

“Lorch, you say? Of House Lorch?”

“Yes, my uncle was Ser Amory Lorch, perhaps you have heard of him? Not long ago he was killed while serving Lord Tywin at Haranhal. I understand the castle is now your seat, Lord Baelish,” the young man replies.

“Yes, indeed. And what is it you are seeking from me?” Baelish asks. Studying his guest, the mockingbird notices a hopeful look on Anderly’s face.

“I was hoping for a compensation, my lord, for the information I have,” he grins, glancing around the room at the nude statues adorning Baelish’s solar.

Well, that depends on what it is you have to tell me, now doesn’t it?” Petyr sneers, his mouth smiling even though his eyes do not.

“I went to the Quiet Isle Lord Baelish on an errand from Tywin Lannister, proclaiming the death of Robb Stark to the countryside. At the septry there, I saw an especially pretty red-haired young lady. She was working there in the garden and took the news of the King in the North’s death very hard,” he pauses, waiting for Petyr’s reaction.

“So, what is that to me? I have an unusually pretty redhead working for me in this very building that took the news of his death hard as well. She serviced the Stark and Greyjoy boys, having grown up in the shadow of Winterfell.” Shrugging, Baelish rises and pours himself a glass of wine. “What is it to me?”

“Well, the thing about this redhead is she has the complexion of a highborn. Even more unusual than that is she was in the company of a very large man-one might even say large enough to pass for a Clegane.”

Narrowing his eyes, Petyr moves closer. “Go on.”

“He told me to shut up, that I was upsetting his wife and since she was crying he took her away to their cabin. They live there, if you want to go see her for yourself.”

“So just for clarity, you say you saw this redheaded young woman in the company of an unusually tall, scarred man?”

“Yes, Lord Baelish.”

“Where?” Lord Baelish leans in. When Anderly pauses, Baelish moves still closer; he had half ignored the young man’s first words when he came in the room. “Where did you see them? I didn’t hear you.”

“At the septry of the Seven on the Quiet Isle.”

“Well Anderly Lorch, it seems you may be of use to me after all,” he purrs, snapping his fingers. “Ros, send Armeca in for our friend, will you?”

“Of course,” she says, hastily leaving the room. After she sends in the woman Baelish requested, Ros hurries to her room, ties up her hair, and makes her way to Lord Varys.

 

 

 


	42. Saying Goodbye and Petyr's Scheme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll carve two headstones, one for my goodbrother and goodmother. The Little bird would like that. She could pray before them, talk to her family if she likes.”

After Sansa’s outpouring of grief, Septon Meribald requests Brother McCann dig two symbolic graves for Lady Catelyn and Robb Stark. After much discussion, the men decide to approach Sandor with the idea first. He meets with the holy men in the garden, not far from Sansa’s view.

“We have arranged for the grave sitesfor Lady Catelyn and King Robb to be situated side by side facing the bay. We would not normally do so but Septon Meribald is willing to make an allowance. Lady Catelyn was most devoted to the Seven, and the brothers feel it appropriate considering the desecration of the bodies. If this meets with your approval, Sandor, we will have them dug at once.”

 _What difference does it make where the graves are? Neither of them is on this gods forsaken earth any longer and any devotion they had died with them. If only they had been as devoted to getting the Little bird and her sister out of King’s Landing._ Sandor bites back his words and glances toward his wife. “I think Sansa will appreciate the gesture; she’ll have a place to visit and remember them. I’d rather see to the graves myself. They are for my wife’s relations, after all.”

“I had a feeling you would want to dig them yourself, Sandor, but the holy brothers felt no man should have to dig the graves of his own relatives,” Elder brother remarks quietly.

 _I’ve already buried my sister, mother and father-the only thing worse would be burying Sansa or one of our children. The Starks don’t mean anything to me other than for the Little bird’s sake_. Gritting his teeth, he merely nods in reply, watching Sansa praying by the water out of the corner of his eye.

Regarding his bereaved wife entreating the gods, a sharp pain fills his heart. Sansa’s sorrow weighs heavily upon him, for grief is an enemy from which Sandor has no means of defense. _Poor Little bird, it will be her Father and not the gods that will see her through this._

“I expect the brothers to keep the full details of the deaths of Lady Catelyn and Robb Stark from Sansa-my wife doesn’t need that image bored into her mind,” Sandor growls low and threatening. It is not that he wishes to deceive her but he saw for himself the gruesome details in the dream and fears it will take very little to shatter her fragile state.

“An excellent idea, Sandor. Brother McCann, relate his wishes to the rest of the brotherhood, please. Lady Sansa is not to be told the manner in which her brother and mother where found.”

“Of course, I will do it at once,” the young septon bows and then turns toward the septry.

“Tell me truly, how are you handling this situation?” Septon Meribald asks, pulling him out of his thoughts.

Shrugging, he shakes his head. “I didn’t know the Starks very well. It’s been hard watching my wife so upset."

“I understand. It is very diificult to see our loved ones suffer,” the holy man answers, making the sign of the Seven over him. Glancing at Elder brother, he says, “The gods be with you, Sandor, and your wife. I’ll leave you men to your conversation now. I must attend the preparations for a service for your family.”

“Many thanks,” Sandor rasps low, his eyes following his wife’s small form walking along the water's edge.

After Septon Meribald walks toward the septry, Elder brother asks, “How have you been managing? Have you been feeling-?”

“Thirsty?” Sandor smirks. “Yes. Bloody hells, you don’t need to whitewash it, Elder brother.”

“I thought you might be,” Elder brother gravely replies, seemingly understanding the war Sandor feels raging inside him. “The stress you are undergoing makes abstaining especially difficult.”

Sandor grunts in reply, shifting his weight on his feet. His craving for wine has returned stronger than ever since word reached them about Sansa’s family and it is all the man can do to refrain from drink.

“Exercise and fresh air helps alleviate it to some degree, though not entirely, I am afraid. Going for a long ride when the feelings get the better of you is most helpful,” Elder brother offers.

Sandor is not so sure about that but he is determined he will not allow himself to taste wine again, no matter how desperately he wants it. Whenever he fears he is about to give in he hears Sansa’s sad voice telling him she feels afraid and alone, and he can see the distraught expression she wore when he returned after the dream.

As much as he longs for the sweet release of drink, he cannot abide it, especially when Sansa is in such a distressed state and needs him. He does not tell Elder brother that many times over the past few weeks he has silently entreated Lord Eddard to help him be the husband his daughter so desperately needs.

Sighing, Sandor shakes his head. “No, I can’t leave her-I won’t leave her when she is like this.”

“I will pray with her and keep her company until you return.” Elder brother says softly. “You must learn to deal with your wine cravings in your own way. Sandor, you need to do this for yourself and for your family.”

 _Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to take Stranger out for just an hour._ Noticing Sandor’s contemplative mood, the holy man changes the subject. “I see the color is slowly returning to Sansa’s cheeks. I take it she is eating better?”

“Yes, I keep after her. She doesn’t eat much, though.”

“I see.” Elder brother nods. “How is her mood?”

“Seven hells,” he sighs, shifting uncomfortably once more. “I can’t rightly say. Sansa seems a bit better but she still speaks very little compared to the way she was before. She spends most of her time praying at the water’s edge. Sometimes she just sits and watches me work.”

“That is natural, Sandor, and rest assured it is a healthy way to grieve. She needs time to heal.”

“Aye, I know that all too well.” He has allowed her to stay in her memories, only offering his thoughts when she addresses him. Observing Sansa’s grief has shaken him deeply, making him feel helpless in a way he has not experienced since he was a boy. Frustrated, Sandor closely minds her forlorn disposition, feeling at a loss as to how to console her.  When last he remembers being comforted he was still a child, and he senses as a woman grown Sansa needs more from him than he knows how to give her.

Elder brother nods solemnly. “I am afraid this may only be the beginning of more troubles for the Seven Kingdoms.”

Sandor turns sharply to face him. “Now what is it? What has happened?”

“The septry received a raven this morning announcing Prince Tommen was made King on the Iron Throne. He will take Margaery Tyrell to wife in his brother’s stead.”

“The boy has courage, I’ll give him that,” Sandor remarks, remembering the day of the tourney. “He’s far too young to wed the Tyrell girl. Gods only know who will rise up and try to usurp with him seated on the Iron throne.”

“I could not agree more on both counts, Sandor. Only the gods can save us from whatever is coming, lad.”

Snorting, Sandor shakes his head. _I knew our respite here could not last. Bloody game of thrones. Ned said he would let us know when it was time to leave-might be sooner than later._

Elder brother pats his shoulder. “Let us put this news aside for now. I will tell Sansa of Septon Meribald’s plans.”

The special service for Lady Catelyn and King Robb is held the following day in the septry. Sandor grits his teeth through the singing and liturgy, though he is pleased to see Sansa is seemingly comforted by it. Dutifully he recites the proper words after Sansa and stands or sits as the service dictates.

Though he feels like a bloody fool for doing so, the man is determined to please his wife and not do anything that may upset her. Immediately she notices he is following her lead and Sansa turns and softly smiles at him before squeezing his hand in silent thanks. Her small gesture is all the reassurance Sandor needs that he chose well in going along with it.

Septon Meribald finishes the service at the symbolic graves. Elder brother says a blessing over the site and then gives two bouquets of flowers to Sandor and Sansa. Confused, he hands his bundle of flowers to his wife. Smiling sadly, she kisses his cheek and then casts both of them into each of the empty graves. Elder McCann quietly begins filling them as the brothers quietly depart, leaving the couple alone in the cemetery.

Crying softly, Sansa kneels before the graves and whispers her prayers to the old gods. Not knowing what to do, Sandor awkwardly leans down and places his hands on her shoulders. “Come, wife, you need to rest.”

“Yes, I think that would be best,” she chokes out. “Thank you for participating in the service, Sandor. I know that you don’t really believe in the gods and I appreciate the effort. You must know, though, that I respect your beliefs and do not expect you to take part if it makes you uncomfortable. Your presence is all I long for, my love.”

Grunting, he makes a circle in the fresh dirt with the toe of his boot. “I wanted to go along with it. I did it for you, wife.”

“And I love you for it,” Sansa says, kissing his hand before clasping it tightly against her breast.

Elder brother slowly walks toward them and Sandor nods and waves him over.

“Thank you, Elder brother,” Sansa whispers, holding his hands in her own.

“It is the least we could do for the both of you, my dear.” Turning to Sandor, he says, “Come by my quarters later, I have something for you.”

Puzzled, Sandor assents. “I’ll be there after I take Sansa back to the cabin.”

When Sandor arrives at Elder brother’s cell, he is surprised to see a sizeable piece of weirwood curing in the sun next to the entryway. “That’s quite a prize you got there,” Sandor rasps, running his hands over the white bark with care. “This would fetch a fortune at the market.”

“I found it during my early morning prayers along the shoreline,” Elder brother smiles. “I meant to use it for a desk top or perhaps sell it, but after today I decided to gift it to the both of you.”

“Truly?” Sandor asks, baffled by the holy man’s generosity.

“The wood comes from a living breathing symbol of the north, just like your lovely Sansa,” he explains. “I would be honored if you fashioned something out of it for her.”

“Many thanks,” Sandor finally manages, visibly moved by the generous gift. “I’ll do just that.”

“Do you have any idea what you might want to make for her?”

After pausing a moment, he says, “I’ll carve two headstones, one for my goodbrother and goodmother. The Little bird would like that. She could pray before them, talk to her family if she likes.”

“An excellent idea, Sandor,” Elder brother agrees. “I do not wish to keep you very long. Please, go attend your wife.”

Sandor spends much time laboring on the grave markers. The design he planned out is very detailed, and Sandor does most of the carving late into the night after Sansa goes to sleep. After two weeks, the pieces are finally finished.

“Sansa, come here love,” he calls, waving her to join him at the water’s edge.

“Yes, Sandor?” She answers quietly as she walks toward him wiping her hands on her apron.

“I have something for your family-for _our_ family, I should say.” His voice sounds harsh and raw even in his own ears.

Blinking in surprise, she sits down. “Our family is mostly gone,” she whispers sadly.

Reaching behind his tools, he sets the two burlap wrapped headstones in front of her. “Open it.”

Pulling at the twine, a loud gasp escapes her lips as the burlap falls away and reveals two ornately carved weirwood grave markers finished to a smooth, pristine surface. “Weirwood? Wherever did you get this?”

“Elder brother found it and wanted to give it to us, seeing how you are from the north.”

Running her fingers over the work, Sansa notices that Lady Catelyn’s headstone is adorned with an engraved fish representing House Tully beside the Stark direwolf, while Robb’s features a running direwolf wearing a crown.

“ _You_ carved this?” Sansa tearfully asks as she examines the detail closely.

“Aye, that I did. You like it?”

“Sandor, I-I am speechless. They are so very beautiful, my love, and made even more precious because they were wrought by your own hands,” she whispers, taking his large hands in hers and kissing each of them tenderly. “How can I ever thank you?”

“You can keep putting one foot in front of the other, love, until you make it through the worst of it. Sansa, I-“Sandor stops abruptly, drawing her closer.

“What is it, husband?” She presses gently, caressing the burned side of his face. “Tell me your thoughts, please.”

“I-I need you, wife. I need you to fight through this, and not allow your grief swallow you whole,” he brokenly rasps, his deep gray eyes pained with worry.

Clearing his throat he averts his eyes, her honest gaze too painful for him to endure. Sandor remembers the stories Robert told of her aunt Lyanna and how Ned found her when he first arrived in King’s Landing.  Though he doesn’t know all the circumstances, he fears Sansa may follow in her aunt’s footsteps and succumb to her sadness.

Regarding him closely, Sansa recognizes his expression is the same he wore when she was lying in bed sick. _He is afraid I will die of grief,_ she realizes, recalling how her father said Sandor stood beside Robert while he mourned her aunt in the catacombs of Winterfell. “Are you afraid you will lose me, as Robert lost my aunt?”

Shrugging, he keeps his eyes fixed on the ground. Wrapping her arms around him, she whispers, “You will always have me, Sandor. Together we will get through this time of mourning. I will not die and leave you, at least not if I can help it.”

Nodding, he pulls her body flush against his own and kisses her softly while stroking her back.

As the rosy blush of dusk settles over the waters of the Bay of Crabs, Sansa softly whispers against his chest, “Look! What a lovely sunset, husband.”

Sandor lifts his head to take in the view, wrapping his arms around her tightly and settling her in front of him. As he watches the sun dip low in the sky, he cannot help think about Lady Catelyn and Robb, and the choice they made not to go to them.

As much as his little wife once hoped that eventually her mother and brother would accept him as her husband, he is certain that would never have happened. After Lord Eddard told him of their intense grief and desire for vengeance, Sandor is convinced no good would have come from taking Sansa to them.

Even though he and the Little bird are married both in the eyes of the Seven and the old gods of the forest, neither the Starks or the Tullys would have believed he did not rape her or forced her to wed him as a condition of return.

Though it shames him terribly, a part of him is relieved they will never face such a situation with her mother and brother. As for her Tully relatives, well, he has no intention of seeing them unless Sansa wishes to go to them sometime in the future.

Since hearing of King Robb and Lady Catelyn’s murder, Sandor cannot shake the feeling he must stay vigilant and prepared, though he is not sure if it is a warning from Lord Stark or his own training echoing in his mind. Readying himself in the only way he knows how, he spends the mornings rigorously training his body and the evenings sharpening his blades and polishing his armor.

 _If that Lannister greenboy messenger could just gallop up one day out of the blue, there is no telling who else might show up._ Staring down at the snarling hound’s helm baring its teeth at him, he ponders why he keeps such a recognizable piece in light of all that has transpired.

It is as distinguishing as his reputation, a fear inspiring visage he has worn most of his adult life. On the battlefield it aroused mortal fear in his enemies; in more peaceful scenarios just the sight of it cast an air of menace over all who looked upon him. He has used it far more for intimidation than battle ever since he was named Joffrey’s sworn shield, the fearsome helm being part of the new armor he bought to honor his appointment.

Sighing, he knows he won’t be able to wear it once they head north lest he run the risk of being easily identified. Despite Bronn’s reassurances that no one is looking for them, Sandor fears that if Gregor went through the trouble of seeking them out for the Lannisters, more lowlife deserters and sellswords are sure to follow.

He has heard of a group calling themselves the Brotherhood Without Banners, a ragtag crew of deserters fashioning themselves as law in the Riverlands. When the time comes for them to head north, the only safe thing to do is leave it behind on the Quiet Isle; mayhaps whoever comes looking for them will take him for dead.

That evening as the fire in the hearth dies down, Sansa snuggles into him, laying her head on his shoulder. In the stillness he hears her whisper, “Sandor?”

“Hmm?” He mutters, half asleep.

“Why have you not loved me?”

“What?” He sits bolt upright at her words and then lights the candle so he can look her in the face. “What in bloody hells is that supposed to mean? How can you even ask that? Of course I love you. I-“

“What I mean to say is, why have you not taken me?” Sansa whispers shyly, tracing her finger over his chest. “It has been a fortnight since our last coupling. You have not even acted like you wanted to lay with me since…since-”

Sighing, he chuckles and wraps his arms around her. “Fuck, it isn’t because I haven’t wanted to take you, Little bird. I thought maybe you would rather-“ Sandor stops, not sure how to phrase his thoughts.Brushing a stray curl behind her ear, he looks at her and shrugs.

“Maybe I would rather-what?”

“Maybe you would rather steer clear of such dealings for a while, at least until you feel better,” he says, bewildered as he watches the decidedly hopeful look on her face fall before his very eyes. “It’s only natural.”

“I suppose it is at that,” she whispers shyly. “Or maybe I have longed for our closeness. Maybe I would rather you love me so that I might remember what it is to feel something other than sadness.” Tentatively she takes his face in her hands and kisses him slow and deep.

“Would you, now?” He rasps, lifting her on top of him. “You don’t need to tell me twice, Little bird.”

Throughout the night Sandor makes love to her more gently than he has ever done before, even more so than on their wedded night. They kiss languidly for a long time while their hands freely explore each other’s bodies.Tenderly he takes his time slowly tasting and caressing her, desiring her to feel the depth of his love with every touch.

Moving his hands over her supple body, he is still amazed to find that this beautiful woman desires him. He allows his fingers to continue their exploration as she stares into his eyes, softly circling her breast and rubbing her nipples between his fingers. Sighing softly, she arches her body into his touch. “More, my love.”

Slowly he inches his hand over her mound and moves his fingers over her entrance. Parting her wet folds, Sandor massages her nub before dipping his finger inside her wet slit. Sansa arches her back, her legs quivering with need under his touch.

“Sandor, take me now,” she pleads in his ear, reaching between them and grasping his manhood before heatedly sheathing him deep inside of her.

“Such a needy Little bird,” he growls in her ear, licking and kissing her neck while slowly he begins to move his hips. The feel of her warm tightness around his manhood overwhelms him, eliciting a long moan from his throat as he closes his eyes in pleasure.

Tightening her legs around his waist, she takes his face in her hands and whimpers, “Sandor, I wish to look into your eyes as you love me.”

Her words pull another deep groan from his throat, and bending down he claims her lips once more, kissing her hard and ardently pressing his tongue inside her mouth.

Soon Sansa completely gives herself over to him, loudly moaning against his mouth and arching her back with each deep thrust of his hips. The sensation of being inside of her warm, wet center is so delicious that soon he is no longer conscious of anything but her. Looking into her deep blue eyes, he can see his beloved wife is in the same place as he; their world has become centered solely on the joining of their bodies, skin against skin, moving together as one.

“I want to see your face while you find your release inside me,” she whispers in his ear before running her tongue in circles over his hammering pulse.

“Sansa,” he gasps out at her words, his hips jerking against her own, his face contorting with pleasure as he steadily holds her gaze.

Sansa’s peak comes upon her suddenly, her inner muscles tightly clenching around his manhood while her body shudders beneath him. He quickly follows, crying out his own release as his seed pulses deep inside her, his hips grinding desperately against hers in an effort to draw out their pleasure.

Gently he moves her on her side and then stretches out facing her. Sansa moves closer to him, wrapping one leg over his thigh and pressing herself flush against him while pulling the furs over their bodies. Staring into her eyes, Sandor finds himself unable to speak.  A torrent of emotion rises within his heart, nearly bringing the hardened man to tears.

Their lovemaking has become more than just the physical act to him; it is a joining of souls in which her love comforts and reassure him in body as well as heart. Gazing into the Little bird’s lovely blue eyes shining with tears, the man recognizes  it means the very same to her and this realization allows him to understand why she needs him in this way.

“My love, that was beautiful,” she whispers, her words going straight to his heart. “To have your love in body as well as heart-I cannot explain it. It feels almost healing, somehow.”

“I know, Little bird, I feel it, too. We’ll get through this together; I swear it on our marriage,” he whispers into her hair, stunned to hear his wife put his exact thoughts into words.

* * *

In the Hall of Lamps inside the Great Sept of Baelor, Ros relates to Varys the details of the conversation between Lord Baelish and Anderly Lorch.

“Lord Baelish is most determined, milord, where Lady Sansa is concerned. Until the young man Anderly showed up, I had given her up for dead after the battle. Petyr is quite fixated on finding her. If I didn’t know better, I would think he may-”

“He may-?” Varys leans in.

“I would think he may be in love with her, to tell you the truth. He will not rest until she is returned to King’s Landing.”

“Poor, sweet Sansa Stark,” he tisks, folding his arms. “Why is it always the innocents who suffer most, when the high lords play their game of thrones?" Varys adds, more to himself than to Ros.

Noticing her expectant look, he continues. “Make no mistake, my dear Ros, Littlefinger _only_ loves Littlefinger, of that I am certain.”

Ros slowly nods in agreement, pulling her shawl closer to her face.

“For your trouble, my little bird. Off with you now,” the Spider smirks, placing a handful of silver stags in her hand. “See to it that Littlefinger does not miss your presence in his establishment. You must be cautious.”

“Lord Varys, I am the soul of discretion. I am always very careful to cover my tracks.”

“I certainly hope you do just that, my dear, for your sake,” he quietly replies, the icy singularity of his tone sending a shiver of fear through the young woman.

Varys’ warning worries Ros as she hurries away from the sept, so much so that she decides to hire a carriage to return to Littlefinger’s brothel as quickly as possible.

Upon entering the private entryway, she hears Baelish’s voice call to her. “Ros, come here, Sweet. We have guests I would like you to attend.”

“Oh, yes?” She smiles sweetly, flouncing her skirts as she walks past the motley assortment of sellswords in Petyr’s solar. Choking down her fear, Ros forces a smile on her lips as she recognizes Rorge. “How do, milord? I believe I have had the pleasure of your company before.”

“Aye, I’ve tasted you once before,” he nods at her with a salacious grin. Standing beside him is a man with filed teeth who hisses at her when she glimpses his face. _The Biter_ , she discerns, her heart fluttering in fear wondering what depravity Petyr has in mind for her.

“Is there any man in the Seven Kingdoms whom you have not entertained, my dear?” Petyr simpers as Ros moves beside him and pours two glasses of wine.

“That infamous eunuch, the Spider,” she winks at him, handing Petyr  a goblet and then drinking deeply from her own. “Of course, I am not of his, um, persuasion, shall we say?” All the men laugh at her words.

“Indeed,” Baelish replies archly. “My dear, I wish for you to make these men happy in any way they see fit. They are men from the Brave Companions, the sellsword company led by Vargo Hoat.”

“Pleased to meet you, gentlemen,” she beams at them. “What a fantastic offer it must be that brings you brave men to us! I can’t wait to hear the tale!”

“These men are now under my contract,” Petyr explains.

“Oh, is that so?” She purrs at them. “Then they deserve extra special treatment, Lord Baelish, isn’t that right?” Opening the door, she calls, “Vanya, Armeca, these men are here at Lord Baelish’s request. See to it that they receive anything they may want and more.”

After the women escort the other sellswords to their private quarters, Baelish says, “Rorge, I wish for you to have Ros this evening.”

“That suits me just fine,” he leers at her.

“Ros, do make him happy. This man is leading a special campaign just to satisfy my own curiosity.”

Struggling to hide her fear, she bats her eyelashes at him. “Oh I most certainly will do just that,” she says, leading him to her rooms.

Once they are behind closed doors, she turns to Rorge with a winning smile and begins undressing. “It has been so long since I’ve entertained you. What special invitation brings you back to my bed?”

“We’re sent to look for the Stark girl,” he mutters as he peels off his breeches. “Lord Baelish is paying us good coin for it, too. We’re to return her to him personally.”

“That’s a bit unusual, don’t you think? Why he would want that highborn brat is beyond me.” She casually comments, pouring him a goblet of Dornish red. Noticing his preoccupation with removing his boots, she adds a small vial of milk of the poppy before handing it to him.

“She’s honey sweet, I hear,” he grins, downing the wine in two large gulps. Ros refills the glass and adds another vial when her back is turned to him.

Quickly he drains the second serving and then pulls her onto his lap. “Your lord and master means to take her with him when he leaves here.”

“Oh, rest assured, Lord Baelish won’t be leaving King’s Landing anytime soon,” she whispers into his ear before the large man passes out beneath her.

 

 


	43. Foreboding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giving up the visage gives Sandor a small measure of peace and each day afterward he visits the symbolic graves, confident it was Lord Eddard’s will that he put away the easily identifiable piece of armor. Still, his apprehension continues to plague him, driving Sandor to train harder than ever,

The next morning, Sandor steps out onto the porch, desperate to clear his restless mind. Making love to Sansa only served to temporarily assuage the apprehension that haunts him. His sleep was dreamless and peaceful but upon awakening he discovered the dark, cold foreboding for their safety weighed even heavier on him than before. The man cannot shake the feeling something is coming; something dangerous to them both and that he must do all he can to prepare.

Lord Eddard has not visited him in his dreams, leaving Sandor at a loss to understand the source of his agitation.  He longs to share his experience with his wife but cannot bring himself to mention it to her while she is still in such a fragile state. _Perhaps it is a sign I should get rid of the helm; it is too risky to keep it with us._ After taking several deep breaths, he goes back inside and picks up the snarling head. “I’ll be back,” he rasps to Sansa on his way out the door.

Elder brother is working in the lichyard and waves when he catches sight of him.  For the briefest moment Sandor considers confiding in the man but quickly dismisses it. “I have planted some snow blossoms on the graves of your relations, Sandor. I thought it an appropriate choice.” Glancing at the helm, he adds, “Does it need repairs?”

“No, no, it is in fine condition,” Sandor sniffs, shuffling the toe of his boot in the damp earth. “It served me well. I believe I need to be rid of it, though. I can’t be seen wearing this-not as recognizable as it makes me. It puts both the Little bird and me at risk.”

“Indeed, a wise decision. We can melt it down, if it pleases you, and refashion it.”

Sandor shifts uncomfortably. “No, I’d rather just leave it here beside Lady Catelyn and Robb Stark. Sansa is the reason I’ve made changes since the first time I wore it, so I suppose it would follow that I lay it to rest beside her kin. The Hound who guarded the Lannisters is dead.”

“As you wish,” Elder brother quietly regards him. Sandor’s uneasiness is palpable but since he does not seem to desire conversation the holy man keeps his concern to himself. “We can put it atop this site here and provide the helm with its own symbolic grave.”

Sandor shrugs, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his breeches.

“It will be here if you want it back.”

“No, I’m done with it,” he grumbles, laying it in the fresh dirt before turning away.  “I’m my own dog now, and only fight to protect my family.”

Giving up the visage gives Sandor a small measure of peace and each day afterward he visits the symbolic graves, confident it was Lord Eddard’s will that he put away the easily identifiable piece of armor. Still, his apprehension continues to plague him, driving Sandor to train harder than ever, steadily increasing his sessions each morning and night. One evening Sansa comes out to watch him, quietly brushing Stranger as he goes through his paces. She has not asked him why he is training and he persists in keeping his worry to himself.

A fortnight later, Sandor looks up from his grave digging to see a small group of raucous, heavily armed men pull rein at the septry. Septon Meribald steps outside to greet them, and Sandor hears the apparent leader ask the holy man for a meal.

Their appearance gives their identity away to Sandor at first glance. “Bloody sellswords,” he spits on the ground, driving his spade into the earth. Pulling his cowl over his face, he pats his short sword underneath his robes and hurries toward Sansa, who is planting lavender in the garden next to the stables.

“Come love,” he grunts, taking her by the arm and lifting to her feet.

Startled, she allows him to lead her away. “What is it?” She whispers nervously as he opens the barn door and ushers her inside.

“Most likely nothing-just a group of rough looking characters I would prefer not see you,” he rasps, his mouth twitching into a smile.

“The men on horseback? I do not think they noticed me. I am careful to keep my head covered while I work,” Sansa offers anxiously.

“Little bird, men such as them spotted you from afar, I guarantee it. You wed a man very much like them, remember?”

Blushing, she smiles. “I am glad you noticed me. Come, let us find a more enjoyable way of waiting them out at the cabin,” Sansa whispers before taking him by the hand and kissing her startled husband.

* * *

“Little Bird, I’ll never get out of this bed at this rate,” Sandor rasps against her naked breast later that afternoon. “A man can only take so much.”

Carefully working out the knots in his hair, Sansa runs her fingers through the length before twirling the ends once more. “I know it makes you sleepy, but I do love your hair,” she quietly answers, unwilling to break the peacefulness of the room. “It has grown so very long these past five moons.”

“I’m not talking about hair, lass,” he growls, sweeping aside her red locks and kissing both breasts tenderly. “You mean to cut mine so I’ll look like Loras Tyrell?” Sandor frowns.

“No, I much prefer you just as you are. I was only thinking what you might use to pull it away from your face while you work. A leather tie, perhaps?” She suggests, gathering it in her hands at the nape of his neck. “It must get so very hot hanging down during the day.“

Sandor rises up to look at her. “As if people didn’t stare enough at this fucked up mess already! There’s no buggering way I’m pulling the hair back off of this face, Sansa, forget it.” Her words inexplicably fill the man with indignation.

“No,” Sansa sadly shakes her head, placing her finger against his mouth. “You are beautiful, my love. I will not hear words to the contrary from your lips or anyone else’s. I love looking at you-your face, your hair,” she blushes as she unabashedly lowers her eyes, taking in his heavily muscled chest.

“Bugger that,” he grumbles, raising his eyebrow at her. Surprisingly, under closer inspection, his wife reveals only honest admiration, love, and desire in the deep blue eyes staring intently back at him.

”Your warrior’s body is unmatched in the Seven Kingdoms,” she whispers, wrapping her legs around his waist and drawing him close. “You are even more muscular now than in King’s Landing. It must be from your training.”

“Little bird,” he grumbles in warning even as he succumbs to her, pulling her close against his chest. “Damn it, don’t.”

“Your warm, powerful arms that hold me close each night,” Sansa smiles at him, running her fingers over the thickly roped muscles spanning his upper back and then slowly inching down his spine.

Scoffing, he turns away though his lips twitch into a small smile, his flood of anger mixing with pride. As irritated as he is to hear her chirp compliments, he cannot help but also feel a bit pleased by her open adoration.

Snuggling down between her breasts, Sandor inhales deeply, intoxicated by her sweet scent. “No more chirping,” he grumbles against her skin.

“I’ll chirp if I feel like it,” she petulantly mutters, tweaking his hair.

“Gods but I would take you again if I had the time. Let’s just rest a few more minutes, wife. I’ve got to get up in a bit; Stranger’s waiting.”

“Are you leaving?” Sansa queries nervously.

“Just for an hour. Elder brother says I need the exercise and besides, I’ll ruin a fine warhorse if he spends any more time to pasture.”

“Have you been feeling sick?” She asks, and Sandor hears her voice shake at the last word.

“Just say what you mean,” Sandor snaps at her. “You want to know if I want wine, is that it?”

“Well, yes.”

“Damned straight I have,” he barks. “I’ve been especially tense lately.”

“So you have decided it is my fault that you crave it, now?” She quietly probes, believing herself to be the source of Sandor’s anxiety.

“You’re putting words in my mouth. Just ask me what you want to know! You want to know if I’m off to get drunk? Then just say so, damn it.”

“Now you are the one putting words in my mouth, Sandor,” Sansa bites back, stubbornly setting her shoulders. “Why would you say such a thing? Is-is that what you are thinking of doing?”

“No, gods be damned!” Sandor gets out of bed, roughly pulling on his breeches. “How can you even ask?! So this is how it’s going to be, is it? You’ll doubt me every time I need to get away for a bit! Planning on smelling my breath when I return?”

“Why are you suddenly so angry?” Sansa asks gently, moving to face him.

“Out of the blue you own up that you can’t trust me-and now you’re chirping such fucking questions, just like the old days,” he hisses at her, gripping her chin so she will look into his eyes.

“There it is,” she says with saddened recognition, raising her hand and placing it over his heart.

Startled, he pulls away from her. “There is what?”

“Fear,” she sighs. “Just like in King’s Landing. No matter what you may believe, that is what drives you to crave wine, then and now, and fuels your anger as well.”

Sputtering in fury, he runs his hands through his hair even as a part of him knows her words to be true. “Bugger that nonsense, Sansa, you’re going too far with this,” he stubbornly growls, unwilling to admit it to himself.

“You are afraid, Sandor, that should you give in and drink, I will see you as you were in King’s Landing, the surly guard who drunkenly scared me,” Sansa continues, her words tinged with sorrow.

Watching Sansa nervously shift while wrapping her arms around herself quickly cools his temper. When he starts to speak, Sansa holds up her hand.

“I do not wish to hear your words, Sandor, for one simple reason: you are right.” She throws up her hands at him as if in defeat. “Gods forgive me but if and when I see you drunk again, I very well may see the bitter, angry man who used to scare me in you.”

Her admission strikes him harder than any blow the man has ever received in battle. Flabbergasted, Sandor remains quiet, her words burning in his mind and heart.

“As long as I have known you, you have always tried to disguise your fear with anger. Why do you think I was afraid of you in King’s Landing?” Sansa laughs without mirth, displeasure peppering her tone.

“You were scared of the Hound,” Sandor uncertainly offers, alarm bitter on his tongue. Hot tears sting the back of his eyes as he waits for her to speak.

“Oh, yes, of course-Joff’s scarred dog should know what it is that scares me! The poor stupid little bird cannot bear to look at me,” she growls in mockery.

“I ought not to have ridiculed you for that,” he says, uneasiness creeping into his harsh voice.

“It was only at first I was intimidated by your scars as I have told you many times before. I have always been more afraid of the act of violence they recall.”

”I put all that away, Little bird.”

“Have you? I was not afraid of you because of the scars or the fact that you are the Hound-that has always been your invention! It has always been your anger-your eyes-“ Sansa bitterly chokes out, tears spilling down her face. “Your eyes were so bitter, so full of hate, just as they were moments ago!”

Drawing a deep breath, he can only nod dejectedly, unable to deny it.

“And I was never a stupid bird-naïve, yes, but never so daft I could not find the good in you.  You say you put it away and yet here we are. Even now, I am not allowed to find beauty in the man who wears them without being scorned.”

Sandor nods, struggling to hide the fact that her words frighten him. Sansa has just started to open up more since losing her family, and knowing his actions have upset her fills him with self-loathing. “I didn’t mean to make you cry, Sansa,” he says quietly.

“I am crying because I am angry-Sandor, I am sick of having this same conversation with you time and again!”

 _I am not a_ _good man, never was. I’ll only ruin her and break her heart._ The words echo in his head while shame sinks in his stomach. Sandor has tried very hard the past moon’s turn to comfort his wife, to console her and give her strength. She had been making progress, too, and in a moment of anger he shit all over it, just like the dog he knows himself to be.

“Forgive me,” he softly pleads, reaching out to her. “I-I don’t know what has come over me. It is a darkness I can’t explain.”

Sansa draws closer to him, the quietness of her tone searing her words into his heart. “That very well may be, but I am tired of you questioning my love any time I dare take issue you and then saying you are sorry as if that erases your hurtful words.”

“Sansa-I-“ He starts to say, then sits on the bed and runs his hands through his hair. _How can I make this right? Damn it, how is it I always manage to push her away-the only woman who has ever cared for me?_

“Just leave me be. Go for your ride, or whatever it is you plan on doing. I will not question you,” Sansa whispers, the trembling of her shoulders as she turns away not escaping the man’s notice.

“No, I won’t leave you.” Sandor says low, cautiously reaching out to her. “You’re coming with me.”

The man is sickened by his behavior toward her while at the same time he understands he cannot keep repeating this same pattern in their marriage. “Get dressed Sansa. Come with me.”

Her eyes flick up to meet his gaze. “Why?”

“Because the fresh air will do us both some good,” he sighs, entreating her with his eyes. “Come on, lass. Let’s get away for a bit.”

After some hesitation, she agrees. “Well, alright.”

While she dresses, Sandor saddles Stranger, the horse nickering and pawing the earth. Puzzled, he looks outside to see a rider fast approaching. “Bloody hells, now what?” Ducking out the door, he hurriedly makes his way back to the cabin.

* * *

Rorge awakens to the scent of rosewater assaulting his nose. Peering through one eye, the man sees Ros lying naked beside him, watching him intently. “What the fuck happened?” He groans before emptying his stomach into the basin on the nightstand.

Rorge is the foulest, most brutal man Ros has ever had the misfortune of entertaining since she began her work ten years hence. She feels lucky to have survived the first time he came to her and last night Ros was determined not to risk another round with him.

“You mean you don’t remember? Now, that it most disappointing, for I gave you some of my best moves,” she purrs at him. _Baelish gave me to you thinking you would kill me, so I spiked your wine-that’s what happened, you stupid brute. Then I gave you a hand job while you slept it off so you wouldn’t be suspicious._

“No, damn you,” he grunts low, his voice threatening even when weakened by winesickness. “My head is pounding. If you have to speak, talk softly, wench.”

“You and I had quite tumble-several times, as a matter of fact-and then you proceeded to indulge in a bit of the Dornish red,” Ros whispers to him with a wink while wrapping a silk robe around her. Wrinkling her nose, she gingerly opens the shutters, needing to air out her room even while knowing the noseless man in her bed will only look even more repulsive in the light of day.

Peeking under the covers, Rorge sees he also is naked. The sheets beneath him appear as though he and Ros had sex. Glaring at her, he reaches for his breeches. “Seems like you did your job from where I sit-just what the fuck did you do?”

 _He’s getting angry. I’d best get him out of here and quick_. “You are far too accustomed to the tawdry romps and watered down ale you get from those poxy whores in Flea Bottom. I had a thoroughly enjoyable evening with you, Rorge but you must excuse me. I have other business to attend,” she smiles sweetly.

Ros’ heart pounds in her ears while her stomach sinks with apprehension. Affecting a bright smile, she hands him his boots.  “As much as I enjoy you, I don’t play nursemaid unless I’m paid to do so. Giving away my services would run me right out of business, I’m sure you understand.”

“Fuck me, I-I think I’m still a bit too shit-faced to get up,” he groans, falling back onto the bed. “What kind of whore’s trick did you put over on me?”

 _Just keep smiling and he’ll leave soon enough._ Laughing softly, she shakes her head. “Here I go out of my way to please you and this is the thanks I get.”

Tisking, she calmly fluffs the pillows before pulling the covers over Rorge once more, straining not to gag at the stench emanating from him. “No worries; rest as long as you need. I am going to take a bath. Afterward I will draw you one as well. It will make you feel better.” _And smell better, too. I’ll have to throw my sheets away after last night._

“Aye, alright,” he grunts, holding his head as he turns over.

In the bathhouse, Ros notices one of Varys’s mute little birds emerges out of the steaming sauna. Motioning the young man toward her, she places a sealed note in his hand along with a silver stag when he hands her a towel. “For your troubles, lad,” she whispers low.

After bathing and dressing, Ros returns to her room to find Rorge in no better condition. “Come, I have a bath made for you. Your men are getting up.”

Muttering under his breath, the large man scowls at her.

“So where are you headed once you leave us?” Ros slyly asks while helping him with his jerkin.

“East of here, toward the Bay of Crabs. That’s where Littlefinger’s man said he saw the lass he thinks is Sansa Stark,” he laughs ruefully. “Can you believe that he thinks the Hound is with her?”

“Nonsense! The Hound is headed for Dorne.” Ros casually replies, remembering Tyrion told her that Shae related the very same story to him.

“Dorne? Why the fuck would he go there?”

“Well, just between us: he’s got a bastard and the whore who bore him kept there. I remember her well-you would, too, if you saw her! She’s exceptional pretty, a young redheaded girl with fair skin and curves for days. He used to buy me and pretend I was her after she left.”

“Really? Well, then I’m sure he’s fucked the Stark girl a hundred times by now if she is with him-she’s got the same look, that one. That’ll ruin Littlefinger’s fun for certain,” Rorge chuckles darkly. “If I find her I’ll get my turn, you best believe that.”

Ros shakes her head with a pout. “What am I to do with men such as the two of you? After all I did to please you last night, you would throw me over for that uptight little Stark girl!”

Rorge remains uncommunicative, and she sees the man turning over her words in his mind. Scoffing, he fastens on his belt, his ominous brooding setting the young woman’s nerves on edge.

Leaning in close, she adds, “Even if the Hound was with her, he wouldn’t want a skinny highborn after that lovely redhead gave him a son. Very skilled she was, that girl.”

Rorge barks out another grating laugh, the callous sound casting a chill through Ros. “That’s news to me. I never heard of the Hound or the Mountain ever bore any whelps, either one of them,” he mutters while pulling on his boots.

“Shh, remember now, it’s a secret,” Ros whispers, putting her index finger to her painted lips. “The Hound’s woman kept the boy hidden after hearing the way the Mountain treated Princess Elia’s children-and Joffrey too, for that matter. You hear how he killed his father’s bastards?”

“Aye.”

“She was a smart lass, if I do say so. Who knows what the king would have done to the child after the Hound told him to fuck off?”

Laughing sharply, he nods before gripping his head soundly. “I heard that one as well; so it’s true then, is it?”

“Yes, indeed. Vanya heard it from Tyrion’s man, Bronn.” 

“Well, don’t you worry, wench, I got proof the Hound is on the Quiet Isle-or was as of two weeks ago, anyway,” he says, drawing out a large object from his pack. Ros gasps at the sight of the unmistakable snarling dog helm once belonging to the Hound.

“You found this on the Quiet Isle?” She asks, running her fingers lightly over the cold metal.

“A sellsword I came across at the inn found it there a while back, sold it to me for a stag. I mean to keep it as a souvenir after I kill that bastard, you see,” he chuckles. “I also mean to have some fun with it at the Hound’s expense.”

“The Hound is not so much of a fool to keep wearing that helm, seeing that he is a wanted man. Who knows where he discarded it or how it came to the Quiet Isle?” Ros replies, affecting a skeptical air.

Rorge lurches toward her and before she can cry out, he wraps a meaty hand around her throat. “I don’t care much for whores giving their opinions. You want to open your mouth, then wrap it around my cock,” he sneers in her face. “Otherwise you’ll keep that trap of yours shut, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Perhaps he might still be there, just as you say,” she says, jerking away from him with a frown. _I hope he is; he’ll put you in the ground before you know what hit you._

“The Hound’s as tough a son of a bitch as they come. I don’t relish the idea of trying to take the Stark girl from him,” he says thoughtfully, scratching himself. “He’s is likely to fight hard over that tasty treat.”

“Indeed,” Ros murmurs disinterestedly.

“Fuck! I haven’t been this hung over since I was a green boy-can’t risk doing that again before going up against a Clegane. What do I owe you?”

“Oh I am sure Petyr meant for me to be on the house,” she coos, flashing her leg at him. _Just leave already…_

“Aye,” he tosses her a stag. “This is to keep your mouth shut about what I said. I ought not to have told you were we are headed,” Rorge growls, gripping her chin tightly, his dirty fingernails digging painfully into her skin. “Or shown you the helm, for that matter.”

 _Never show your fear,_ she repeats to herself, one of the first lessons she learned as a novice in Wintertown. Ros stiffly maintains a cool expression, ignoring his aggressive ways. _His eyes are black and cold_ , she thinks briefly, _as black as his heart, I’m sure._

Smiling, she winks at him and whispers, “Consider us even, then. I ought not to have told you about the Hound’s bastard-he’ll slit my throat if he ever hears of it.”

“Don’t you worry about _him_ , girl-I’ll slit your throat just as quick as the Hound if I hear you told anyone what I said,” he snarls in her face.

“Oh, you mustn’t give it any thought at all. I am as silent as the grave,” she says, tugging at his lacings. “You know, it just might be awhile before you catch up to the Stark girl. Why don’t I join you in that bath? It will be on the house.” She giggles at him.

“I like the sound of that,” he nods, turning her loose and following her out of the room.

After the Brave Companions leave Baelish’s establishment, Ros quickly dresses and then hurries toward the Great Sept of Baelor. In the main sanctum she finds Varys waiting, eager to hear of Littlefinger’s plans.

Detailing how Petyr hired Rorge and his men to go to the Quiet Isle in search of Sansa, Ros anxiously waits for his reply. 

“Ros, tell me truly: does Lord Baelish believe that Anderly Lorch actually saw Sansa Stark? I don’t believe he would know the young woman even if he saw her.”

“I thought the very same, though identifying the Hound is less of a challenge, to be sure. Rorge bought Clegane’s helm off a sellsword who claimed he found it on the Quiet Isle.”

Frowning, Varys nods. “My plan is already in place that will ensure Lord Baelish leaves King’s Landing. However, what to do about these so-called Brave Companions is entirely another matter,” the somber eunuch deliberates. “Have you packed your things?”

“Yes, milord,” Ros nods. “I’ve them in storage next to the docks.”

“Very good. Do not return to Lord Baelish’s place, do you understand?”

“But why?”

“The little bird of mine you met earlier was killed. Judging by his wounds, it appears to be the work of the Biter. You will leave on a ship headed for Dorne within the hour.”

Sickening dread washes over the young woman. A tall handsome fellow steps out from behind a nearby sculpture of the Father causing her to gasp audibly and step back.

Ignoring her paling countenance, Varys continues. “My man will assist you with your things and see you on your way. Lotharo, meet Ros.”

Bowing, the man smiles at her. “Valar Doeheris.”

“Forgive me, I don’t speak Valyrian.”

“All men must serve, my lady.”

“Indeed.” Ros nods, nervously swallowing as she brings her hand to her throat.

Looking him over, she notices the man has sleek, long black hair and tawny copper skin that stands in sharp contrast to piercing olive eyes. Tall and powerfully built, Lotharo carries a Dothraki arakh strapped to his waist, adding to his intimidating demeanor.

“Is something wrong?” He asks, watching her eyeing him.

No, ser,” She replies softly, her eyes fixed on his weapon. “Pray forgive my rudeness. Observing men rather closely is a force of habit from my profession.”

“It is one from my own as well,” he grins.

Varys smirks at her words. “He is no ser; he is a Tyroshi sellsword. You must not fret over him, dear. Lotharo is here to protect you on your journey. I am nothing if not thorough, gods save me, and mean to keep you alive just as we discussed. Consider it payment for your invaluable contributions in the eventual removal of Lord Baelish from King’s Landing.”

“Many thanks, milord. That is most generous of you.”

“Here are your papers and enough coin to get you started. Have you your savings?”

“Yes, milord. I always keep it on me ever since we’ve been talking,” Ros answers quietly, glancing downward. “I’ve it sewn into my corset.”

“Good,” he smiles. “Lotharo will act as your guard until you are settled in Dorne and beyond Littlefinger’s reach. Should you need to reach me with any news, he will do it for you, understand?”

“Yes, thank you, milord,” she stammers, dumbfounded by the liberal kindness shown to her.

 “You must not repeat a word of what we have spoken to anyone, is that clear? For if you do, well, Lotharo is here to ensure your silence as well,” he says softly, his genteel smile belying the menace in his words. “Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, Lord Varys,” she eagerly nods. “Not a word, I swear it.”

“Good. Be on your way, then. I have much to do,” the Spider waves her away. Once she is out of sight, Varys turns toward the altar.

“That was extremely generous, giving a woman such as her a fierce Tyroshi guardian for her journey. You are a changed man indeed. Did you hear everything Ros said, my lord?”

“Every word of it.” Stepping out from behind the statue of the Mother, Jaime Lannister moves next to the Spider.

“I fear your vow to return Sansa Stark will be most difficult to honor.”

Jaime knew as much when he decided that he would return Sansa. It was not like to win him back his honor, but the idea of keeping faith when everyone expected betrayal amused him more than he could say. “After you told me that Lorch boy sighted Sandor Clegane with Sansa Stark, I sent Lady Brienne to the Quiet Isle in search of them.”

“Lady Brienne is a fine warrior, I am sure, but the Brave Companions may be a bit much even for her,” Varys suggests cautiously, knowing Jaime has certain affection for the woman.

“Indeed, which is why I am headed out after her,” he says, absently rubbing the stump where his sword hand once was. “She is a fine warrior, but I know she will not be able to take on so many brutal men at once.” After what happened at Haranhal with the Brave Companions, he is most unwilling to passively wait and see what will become of her.

“And what do you mean to do with Clegane?” Varys asks, raising his eyebrow. “He’s not exactly known for going peacefully.” 

The eunuch wisely does not remind Jaime that the Kingslayer himself only bested Sandor Clegane a handful of times even with his sword hand intact. The implication hangs awkwardly between the men, and Jaime draws his mouth into a taut line during the following silence.

“I sent Oathkeeper with Brienne to offer Sansa as a sign of goodwill. I mean to take Widow’s Wail with me as well; perhaps that will cool Clegane’s heels for a bit.”

Jaime was insulted by his father's gift of a sword forged from Lord Eddard’s Ice, especially when he knows how useless he still is without his sword hand, and he has no hesitation in returning them.“Those swords belong to the Starks, you know,” he adds.

“Melt it down and add it to the others,” Varys says under his breath.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, forgive me my lord, I was recalling something Ser Barristan once said to King Joffrey.”

Jaime frowns at him. ”Were you now?” _Joffrey was nothing to me, and he deserved to die,_ he bitterly reminds himself.

“Yes, my lord,” he says with a bow. “I fear the Queen Regent and Lord Tywin’s reaction upon finding such swords missing. Given the circumstances, however, I believe extreme measures are warranted. No doubt your offer will be appreciated.”

“Sansa Stark is my last chance for honor.” Jaime smiles thinly. “Besides, kingslayers should band together, don’t you think?”

Grinning, Varys nods, the man relieved to see Jaime’s notorious bravado returning at last. "Whatever brings you closer to Lord Tyrion, my lord. I would not judge you."

“I will find the girl and keep her safe. For her lady mother’s sake.” Jaime resolutely answers before turning and leaving the sept.


	44. Tales of a Mad Dog Reach the Quiet Isle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thinking back, he remembers that after the first time they made love since hearing of the deaths of her mother and brother, Sansa put his thoughts to words as soon as they came into his mind. He thought it a coincidence at the time but now he is not so sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has non-descriptive mentions of the incidents in the Saltpans. There is no detail given, only the word for what has happened but still I felt it best to warn my readers. Also, there is a scene where suicide is mentioned as a means to avoid suffering at the hands of soldiers.
> 
> I have placed a bolded asterisk (*) next to the paragraphs so those of you who may wish to avoid the mention of it will still be able to read the rest of the chapter.

* * *

It is a thing of wonderment to Sansa, learning that the man she loves so much also has the greatest ability to set her temper ablaze. Silently fuming, Sansa replays their argument as she laces up her gown, yanking the strings into knots as she does so.

In the time since they left King’s Landing, she has discovered that to witness Sandor’s fear, anger and insecurity break forth is to behold a force of nature, a beast pummeling forward with no regard to who or what stands in its path.  “Must it always be this way between us, Father? Will we never get past his rage and doubt?” She asks out loud, her voice breaking the stillness.

Sighing, she settles on the bed and stares out the window. Sansa has prayed that her calm nature would have a settling influence on her volatile husband. Between her Father’s efforts to help them and the never ending threats that seem to lurk at every turn, shecannot help but worry for their future together if that does not happen. Her eyes fall on the prayer wheel, and so she takes it hand and whispers an appeal to the Mother to gentle his anger as well as her own.

A clamor emerging from the front of the septry interrupts her supplications.  Peeking through the curtains, she sees a rider pulling rein on a lathered bay, the horses’ hooves spraying gravel into the grass. _What could this be about? Not more bad news, I hope._

 _Is that Septon Meribald returning from his mission?_ _He wouldn’t be running a horse in that way, he always walks; the argument with Sandor has addled my mind._

Sandor rushes through the door, nearly knocking her out of the way in his haste. Dark anxiety clouds his eyes as he takes her by the arm. “Come on, wife, we’ve got to move.”

“Love, you are out of breath; tell me, what is happening?” She asks softly.

“We’re leaving, now. I won’t take any chances after what happened at the Twins,” he says, pulling on his hauberk. “Get on those breeches, they’re better for riding and we may be gone awhile.”

“Why? Is it bad news? I heard the rider,” Sansa whispers, hurriedly pulling on the rough woolen pants and boots before carefully smoothing down her gown.

“Fuck me if I know, but I don’t like the looks of it.” He finishes strapping on his weapons and turns to watch her adjust her clothing with a smirk, shaking his head. “Always the proper lady, aren’t you?”

Ignoring his comment, she hands Sandor a satchel before gathering the furs from the bed. “Here, I packed this with a few necessities after our trip to Maidenpool, just in case.”  

“Good. Now grab your cloak and coat-quickly, damn it!” Sandor growls low, taking her by the arm and gently pushing her toward the wardrobe _._

Glancing out the window, Sandor’s stomach sinks as he spies the Lannister sigil on the banner adorning the horse’s flank. _Fuck, did they find out Sansa is here?_ _The man is young, still a boy even, most likely an errand boy. Lannisters-those bloody no good pieces of shits no doubt killed the little bird’s mother and brother. I won’t lose her to them, gods be damned! I swear on Lord Eddard’s grave that I’ll kill them all_.

Sweat drips down the back of his neck and into his armor. Noticing Sansa’s fearful expression, he consciously alters his demeanor. “It’ll be alright. Cover your head, lass.”

“Of course,” she replies shakily, her trembling hands fumbling through her things for her scarf.  Watching her, he pulls her close against his chest, inhaling deeply the lavender scent of her. Her soft skin smells of sleep and the remnants of their lovemaking, and somehow the man finds the blend of the two calming.  

“I’ll keep you safe.”Fear claws at his throat, rendering his voice uneven and harsh. Sandor draws her flush against him. “Remember my promise, lass.”

Surveying the scene outside, he sees that Elder brother, Elder McCann  are approaching the young soldier. Grunting, he spits on the ground. “Not a knight, or any ranking man that I can tell leastways. He looks to be just a greenboy messenger from the Lannisters. Still, I’m not taking any chances.”

Sansa is so very tired of running and  living under the constant fear of discovery that his words strike her like a blow. Staggering back, she grips his arm for support. “Lannisters? Gods be good! What if he is a scout for a larger band of soldiers? Were shall we go? There is not a place around here to hide.”

“Trust me, Little bird,” Sandor says, holding her face in his hands.  “That one is nothing to fear. If we should come across them, they’ll not take you unless they kill me first. If by some stroke they manage to do it,” Blowing out his breath, he clears his throat. “Well, you know where the heart is, don’t you?”

The very thought of what he is about to tell her sickens him, but Sandor cannot leave it unsaid. Though Lord Eddard assurances ring in his hears, with the amount of adversity facing them he feels it is an unavoidable necessity. In the event he should be killed and she taken captive, Sandor cannot bear for her to fall prey to a monster like his brother. Watching her expectantly, he views the sudden change in her bearing before speaking.

Sandor’s words take hold of her with a nauseating dread.“Y-yes, I do. Sandor what are you saying?” Sansa pales, placing a trembling hand over his breastplate above his ribs.

 ***** Solemnly he nods once and covers her hand with his own before positioning it just below her left breast. “Here, wife,” he chokes out through gritted teeth. “If things ever go to the seven hells for us-“ Unable to form the words, the man pauses once more. “If the time comes that I am gone, lass, you don’t want to endure what those bastards will have in store for you.”

“And you want me to-? No, it is unthinkable!” She backs away in horror **.**

 ***** “Yes, you can do it. You must.” Sandor grips her tightly, takes her knife, places it in her hands and covers them with his own. “You take that knife you have tucked in your sash and make a sharp thrust upward, understand?”

“No, please, I could never-“

“You remember hearing what Gregor did to Elia, do you?” He  harshly rasps at her, using a tone he has not heard from his voice since King’s Landing.

“Yes,” Sansa whispers.

“You best not forget, either. Any one of those Lannister men would do the same, believe that. Don’t wait too long, before they get too close and get the upper hand on you. Drive it in fast, and give yourself over to it.”

“No Sandor, that is not our way! We are meant to survive and such is a sin!” She claws at his armor, trying to pull away from him.

 ***** Heaving a sigh, he gently draws her against his chest. “A sin to deny some buggering rapist his pleasure before he kills you anyway?” Shaking his head, he pauses. “Nature teaches us it is not so very wrong, if we go by the way of dogs and wolves. Remember, though you married a dog, you’re a wolf, through and through.  Your sigil will run itself to death rather than be killed at the hands of a rival pack.”

“Yes, Father often said as much; he witnessed it many times at home.” After a moment, she adds, “Surely the Mother and the Maiden would not expect a woman to endure that, knowing her life will end at the hands of such men anyway.”

“Hear me now; it most like won’t come to that, but if it does, promise me you won’t hesitate. Promise me,” he says, lowering his face to hers and gripping her chin in between his fingers. “I need to hear you to say you won’t allow such men to do you that way. Say it.”

 _He is afraid for me; he needs me to reassure him that I won’t suffer after he is gone._ “I promise. I-I know can do it if it comes to that. That day on the parapet, I was ready to go over with Joffrey, you recall.”

“Aye, I remember that well. I remember the look in your eyes too, lass.”

Tears well in her eyes. “Wait for me, when you get there, should it come to that.”

Sandor leans in and whispers against her lips. “I’ll wait for you in the afterlife with your Father, believe that, and I’ll find a way to make the bastards pay dear for it.”

Choking out a cry, Sansa kisses him fiercely, clinging to him with all her might. The horror of his words drives the air from her lungs. “You mustn’t speak of this again, Sandor. We will get away today and what is more, Father will never allow us to come to such a fate-I know it!” Sansa gasps out between sobs.

“From your mouth to the gods ears, wife.” Sandor rasps before kissing her again. Sansa’s intense anxiety forms a web in his mind, settling over his own emotions and strangling out his thoughts in a most unsettling manner. _How can such a thing be?_ The man wonders briefly as he watches Sansa wring her hands.

“Bloody hells I didn’t tell you this to scare you shitless. Don’t fret, Sansa; it’s only to prepare you for the worst, understand? It is an unfortunate necessity, wife, one that I had to bring up.”

Sansa nods uncertainly. “Yes, of course my love.”

Sandor holds out his hand to her. “I know it comes as a shock. We’ll speak of this later, alright?  Come, wife.”

Clasping his hand, Sansa follows him. Slowly Sandor opens the door, peers around and then pulls her toward Stranger.

“The Elder brother and I decided on a meeting place should there be trouble after the incident at the Twins-it’s called the Hermit Hole. It is the original residence of the first holy man to live on the Quiet Isle and Elder brother currently keeps a permanent place there.“

“Oh yes? “

“We’ll meet him there after sundown. He gave me a key,” Sandor says, tugging at a braided rope around his neck.

“That is a very good idea, husband, after all that has happened,” Sansa murmurs shakily, fighting to control her trembling. “It was very kind of him to offer.”

“We’ll head into the woods for now. It’s marshy back there, easy to get lost and hard to track. We’ll see what comes of the newcomer. No more talking.”

Lifting her up onto Stranger, Sandor quickly mounts in front of her. “Stay hidden under my cloak and hold on tight now. If I need to fight my way out, my arms need to be free-I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sansa wraps her arms around his waist. “I think I’m settled.”

Sandor reaches behind him and makes certain Sansa is situated in the saddle.  “Hold tight, now. I’ll keep you safe. You believe me?”

Sansa nods against his back, cleaving to him. Stranger snorts and and dances, every bit as anxious as his master to get away. Sandor can feel her quaking behind him, and her fear painfully scorches through his heart.  He shakes his head to clear his mind and then leads the courser into the hillside.

Sensing her apprehension in such a palpable manner fuels his smoldering fury. Sandor is torn; he wants to go vent his wrath on the Lannister man but as acutely aware as he is of her emotions, he consciously tries to calm himself for her sake.

“You’re alright Little bird,” he says softly, affecting the same tone he used the day the mob had her on her back, wondering how many times he will yet need to say such words to his wife.

“I-I know, Sandor. I trust you,” she whispers against the cold metal of his armor. Wheeling around, the fierce black warhorse instinctively follows the trail where the wide mouth of the Trident widens further still to meet the Bay of Crabs.

As the travel, Sandor feels Sansa squeezing him tightly, her trembling continuing unabated. Cursing himself silently, Sandor did not mean for her to fixate on their conversation earlier. Telling her such a thing had been an unhappy and yet vital lesson, one he had meant to give her for quite some time, but now the man wishes he could have bit back his morbid warning until later.

Traversing the hillside behind the Hermit’s Hole, the uneven terrain grows steeper, the narrow path meandering back and forth through thick weeds and briars. Wind battered rocks and twisted, thorny trees cling doggedly to the stony hillside surrounding the trail.

“How quickly and sure-footed Stranger moves, even on a road such as this! We already have traveled far enough that the cottages look like beehives made of stone.” Sansa points toward the sept with a smile.

Glancing toward the bay, he slows Stranger down and turns to take in the view. The receding water leaves behind a broad stretch of glistening bronze mudflats dotted by tidal pools that glitter like golden coins in the afternoon sun.Sheep graze on the green hillside and storks wade in the shallow waters around the ferry landing.

“Look at that, Sansa,” he says, pointing toward the bay. “Quite a sight in the afternoon sun,” he nods, sensing her attempt at conversation is an indication her fear is receding as well. “Come here, wife, let’s get you in front of me now.”

Carefully he lifts her into the saddle and pulls her against his chest. “See there? We’re headed upslope into those terraced fields. The terrain is too tricky for the average rider and will give us a measure of safety.”

Sansa nods at him with another smile, and the man feels her mood markedly improving. “Are you better, wife?”

“Yes, I am. Earlier, well, I just felt so overwhelmed by your words, your anger-“ Sansa bites her lip.

Startled, he tips her face up to him. “What do you mean, Little bird? Tell me truly: are you saying you could actually feel my anger earlier?”

“Yes-no-oh, my love, I am not sure!” Sansa frets, wringing her hands. “ All I know is that when you and I were arguing, I could hear a loud buzzing in my head until your anger seemed to become one with my own. I-I do not know how else to describe it.”

“Humph,” he grunts, the man at once relieved and disconcerted to learn she is experiencing something very similar to him. Thinking back, he remembers that after the first time they made love since hearing of  the deaths of her mother and brother, Sansa put his thoughts to words as soon as they came into his mind. He thought it a coincidence at the time but now he is not so sure.

“Sandor, I know you think I am talking foolish, maybe chirping or what have you, but it has been happening for a while now off and on ever since the fight with Gregor. I prayed to Father that we might know each other’s feelings in hopes we would understand each other better.”

Scratching his beard, Sandor regards her closely. _What does she mean by that?_  “What in bloody hells are you talking about? You prayed I would share your emotions, is that the way of it? And this is some buggering sorcery from the gods?”

She hugs her arms to her chest while casting a nervous glance at him through lowered lashes.“I-I can’t rightly say. It is an innate perception of your feelings within my heart; perhaps intuition would be a better word to explain it.”

Taking his hands, she looks earnestly into his gray eyes. “I haven’t told you of this because I am afraid you would think me mad or treat me differently, like I am a monster of some sort.”

Puzzled, Sandor shakes his head. “Tell me truly-is it in the same way as you have those bloody dreams?”

“Well, not exactly. Sometimes when I am in your arms, a warm contentment comes over me and I know that it is not my own but yours. At other times I have sensed your emotions, too.

"When? What sort of emotions?"

"Well, the entire time you were speaking to Elder brother after your dream, I was overcome by regret, darkness, shame, rage, pain, guilt, fear…" She turns her eyes away from him. “I made your love lock in part to settle my nerves and give an outlet for your anxiety.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters. Almost fearfully he asks, “Is it only bad things you feel, woman?”

“No, Sandor, of course not. When you allow yourself to feel good things, such as when we couple, I sense love, contentment and a glimmer of hope, too, though it is always paired with a darker feeling. It is as though you are afraid that if you give voice to it, you will lose the happiness you have gained with me.”

“Bloody hells, you have the right of it,” Sandor says in disbelief.  “What has Eddard done to us?”

“Please do not be angry. I could not bear it if you were made unhappy by this. It is a gift from the gods; I believe we are bonded in a similar manner as I was with Lady-at least, that is how you feel to me.”

Closing his eyes, he struggles to still his doubts _. She can feel me? And damn me to Seven hells if I don’t feel her, too-has Eddard truly bound us together in some way? Bugger me, the dreams, sensing her-this is all too much._

“I’m not angry, Little bird,”  Sandor murmurs, caressing her hand. “I’m confused, frustrated-I don’t want you to suffer because of me. Bugger it, I’m a Westerman, where I grew up we didn’t have such things to deal with.”

“No, of course not; you had Gregor, which is far worse, I believe.”

Smirking, he nods. “True enough, that.  I don’t know what to make of all of this, wife. Your fear earlier, I-”

Sansa’s eyes widen. “You have felt it too?”

“Aye, I have,  lass,” He reluctantly admits, glancing at her sheepishly.

“Sandor, Father knows what is ahead for us and is only trying to help.” Touching his cheek, she timidly looks into his eyes. “Perhaps he feels we will be safer if we are able to share our feelings to some degree. Such a bonding surely eases the way to hear him from the afterlife.”

Sansa’s eyes are so full of confidence that Sandor does not have the heart to openly doubt her words; neither can he look away from her beautiful gaze. Deep within the man, a warmth slowly spreads through him; it is gentle, soft, and decidedly not his own. _I can feel her…it is as though Sansa’s feelings and my own bonded together as one._ The stunning revelation both frightens and fortifies Sandor. He sits in silence as he regards her, the man utterly astounded by her words.

“Sandor, I know you think me foolish but when I think of us, our future, I feel a certainty that I cannot rationalize in our current situation.  I know with absolute conviction that we will make it and that we will have our family, just as surely as I know I am a woman, or that the sun will rise tomorrow or that winter is coming.” Placing her hand over his heart, she whispers, “It is part of me-a part of _us_. It is our destiny that is rooted within me. I do not know if it is Father’s doing, or-”

Her words bring another strong wave of intense emotion coursing through his mind. “Or what?” He finally asks, struggling to steady his voice.

“It may be something Maester Luwin used to speak of after Bran was hurt. Have you heard of warging?”

“Aye, that I have. Heard about it as a squire and believed it to be a load of horseshit until  in my dreams your sister admitted she led her direwolf to us by such means.”

Sansa’s interest piques at his words. “Really?”

“Arya said it was by means of warging that she helped her bloody direwolf fight off Gregor as well-though she did not say it in those exact words, though.” Sandor chuckles before leaning in closer and studying her face.

 _Did losing her direwolf bring this about? She can no longer bond with the animal and so Eddard brought it about with me. No, it cannot be_. Sandor cannot reconcile that notion, since he did not feel such things from her until recently. “Just how far does such northern sorcery binding the Starks to their wolves go?”

Sansa suddenly smiles. “I do not know how far such bonding can go, but I am reminded of what King Robert said just before he ordered Lady killed. You were there as well.”

“Oh, aye?”

“He told my father that a direwolf was no pet. ‘Get her a dog, she’ll be happier for it,’ Robert said. My father looked very grave at his words; perhaps he knew more of such bonding than he told us and took offense at the jest.”

“Well love, it seems your Father took fat old Robert’s words to heart after all,” Sandor laughs before kissing the top of her head. “Let’s put this on the shelf for now and find us a spot to hide, what say you?”

“Yes, let us do that, my love,” Sansa agrees, taking his hand and kissing it before returning it to its place on her stomach.

Her response to him draws a smile to his face, and slowly a wash of contentment diffuses through Sandor, bringing a sudden calmness over his anxious mind.

* * *

Ser Jaime Lannister’s crow reached Maidenpool, announcing Brienne’s arrival to the Lannister contingent stationed there. While on his mission, Septon Meribald overheard the soldiers talking about a band of sellswords calling themselves the Brave Companions were headed for the Saltpans by means of Maidenpool and sent the warning onto the septry before hastily departing.

Though his concern for Sandor and Sansa is very real, the Elder brother is outraged by the Lannister soldiers’ unwelcome intrusions on the holy brothers’ worship and dedicated life.Until recently, he and Septon Meribald successfully kept the worst of the tidings from the outside world so as not to disturb the tranquility of the brotherhood.

Narrowing his eyes at the young Lannister soldier, he arises from his gardening and approaches him. “My good man, the behavior of the Lannister soldiers as of late must be henceforth put to an end. Initially we were led to believe it was to be a one-time incident but now I can see that such is not the case.”

“I beg pardon, ser,” the young man sputters out.

“We here are not at the Lannisters bidding, nor do we wish to be involved with the goings on in the rest of the Seven kingdoms. Many of the brothers came to the isle to escape the horrors of the world, not to dwell upon them.”

 ***** “Forgive me brother but I am sent by Captain Manderly to warn you of the raping in the Saltpans. You did our commander a fine turn and he means to make certain you are aware and take appropriate measures, seeing that you have a place for women to stay here at the septry.”

“Many atrocities have been committed since the war, young man. We will continue to take care of any who seek to come under our refuge, just as we have for two thousand years. It is our tradition. Whoever the man is committing these crimes, I assure you he is not the first to come here for evil gain,” Elder brother curtly responds, turning to the septry.

 ***** “Brother, please hear me out. These man aren’t ordinary ruffians. The Hound slew twenty men at the Saltpans and ravaged twelve women, too, one a girl of two and ten, poor lass, and promised to the Faith. All that remains there is the castle, and old Ser Quincy was so frightened he would not open his gates, but he shouted down at them from his battlements.”

“He should be stripped on his titles for his cowardice,” Elder brother comments darkly.

 ***** “The whole town was destroyed by the perpetrators. The Hound put the buildings to the torch and the people to the sword and rode off laughing.” Paling, he continues, “The outlaws murdered old Septon Bennet  just as they slaughtered children in the arms of their mothers. The women…you would not believe what he and his men did to some of the women. I will not speak of it-it made me sick to see.” No more does the young soldier get the words out than he leans over and vomits on the side of his horse.

Elder brother shakes his head and makes the sign of the Seven over his heart. “The gods will see fit to punish those men for such atrocities, you must have faith. May the victims rest in the seven heavens with the blessing of the Seven.”

“Please, will you come and see to one such soul? She is brutally hurt and in need of a healer. We are camped but a few miles north. Ser Jaime Lannister has returned to King’s Landing and sent us to find the men responsible. He is on his way as we speak and his knight rides ahead of him. We will be on our way once the woman is taken care of.”

“Certainly I will attend her,” Elder brother sighs and hands the young man a handkerchief and canteen. When he sees the soldier has composed himself, he gravely replies, “Please send my thanks to your commander and tell him I will ride out at once. We will pray to the Seven that they bring the man to justice for his crimes, whoever he is.”

 ***** “Tis the Hound for certain, holy brother. The people, one and all, saw his helm and his sharp, pointy teeth as he laughed and burned and raped, him and his men.”

“The man you hunt is dead. I spent enough time with him to see he did not have pointy teeth and when he came to us he was in no condition to harm anyone. In fact, I buried him myself over there,” Elder brother gestures to the lichyard. “I left his helm as a marker, and it was stolen some weeks ago.I covered him with stones to keep the carrion eaters from digging up his flesh, and set his helm atop the cairn to mark his final resting place. That was a dangerous error. Some other wanderer found my marker and now it is clear he claimed it for himself to commit these crimes. The man who raped and killed at Saltpans was not Sandor Clegane, though he sounds to be as dangerous.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, the young man repeats, “The Hound is dead. I saw the man fight at Blackwater; he was unstoppable. How did it happen?”

“By the sword, as he lived. He came to us broken and with a grievous injury incurred by his brother; that is what sent him down the path. The Hound died here. Sandor Clegane is at peace.”

“So the man we seek for the crimes in the Saltpans is another. The captain will be most anxious to hear what you have to say.”

“Yes,” Elder brother demurs, “Though such information will hardly comfort that poor woman, I dare say. We received warning that a band of sellswords calling themselves the Brave Companions sailed out of Blackwater Bay two weeks hence, and were said to have ferried into Maidenpool from Gulltown. ” 

“Seems like a lot of trouble for men such as them,” the young man comments.

“Ser, I was once a knight and I can assure you that sellswords do not work on an hourly scale-it is in their best interest financially to travel as fast and a light as possible. Depending on who hired them, they may be highly motivated.”

“Indeed,” the young man pauses, glancing around nervously. “Please, holy brother, the woman is most poor-might we leave this place and go to her now?”

Knitting his brows, Elder brother nods. “Of course, allow me to collect my things and we will be on our way.” Observing the young soldier’s anxious behavior, he adds, ”Unless I am much mistaken, I dare say your eagerness is solely rooted in concern for her, my good man. Pray, what is it that has you so frightened here?”

Swallowing hard, the young man hesitates. “Your Septon Meribald regaled the men with stories of mud along the Trident's mudflats that can swallow up ignorant travelers. What is more, there are tales of a large, monstrous, man-eating, demon-like she-wolf that leads a pack of savage wolves prowling throughout the Trident. I-I was the one who drew the short straw to ride here.”

“Most courageous of you.” The holy man stifles his laughter. “Well, in light of such dangers, we’ll need be extra vigilant, then, won’t we?”

 


	45. A Changed Lion and The Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa heard of the Stark bonding her entire life from Maester Luwin, always followed by the reassurance that the Kings of Winter long ago no longer bestowed such gifts since the dawning of a more civilized age in Westeros. Their lovemaking had been intense and beautiful in an otherworldly, dreamlike way. Lost in thought, she contemplates over the experience, wondering at what uncanny endeavors brought about the connection between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, today is my six month anniversary of being cancer free! I am very grateful for all the support you have given me, as well as the encouragement to continue writing this story. 
> 
> Thank you so very much-please know that I will be forever grateful to all of you :D I wrote an extra long chapter to mark the occasion. Enjoy!

After the bells tolled for Lord Tywin, he laid in state for seven days in the Great Sept of Baelor before his funeral procession made its way west with a train of knights and lords from the Westerlands. The Lannister bannermen all seem most eager to court the favor of Cersei and Jaime, and at one time he would have taken pride in the show of solidarity. Now, however, the man only feels emptiness paired with a powerful desire to put as much distance between him and the capital as possible.

Grand Maester Pycelle examined Lord Tywin extensively and determined he died from apparent poisoning, ostensibly at the hands of Armeca, also found dead in Tywin's bed. One look at Cersei's face upon hearing the news revealed the truth of the matter to Jaime in an instant.

The queen regent's reaction did not escape Varys' notice, and he responded by casually commenting that he wondered how long the man would last after engaging Cersei to Loras. Varys had the right of it, but not entirely; the eunuch made free to speculate now that Jaime had returned to King's Landing, Loras Tyrell would soon come down with a bad case of sword through bowels.

He had no desire to kill the young man. Raised in court alongside Renly Baratheon as he was, Jaime had known about his relationship with Loras for years and did not blame him one wit for it. Experience taught the man the cruel lesson that no one gets to choose who they love, and he even said as much to Brienne more than once during their travels.

Looking back on it, Jaime regrets much of the goading he gave her about Renly on the road, even going so far as to tell her she was far too much man for her former King. It was unfair of him, for in truth he discovered in Brienne a curious blend of warrior and tenderhearted woman, kind and gentle as well as brave and aggressive. Time and again he witnessed how she adapted her demeanor with ease as the situation dictated. In truth Jaime admires her, and has come to care for her in his own way.

The royal carriage travels upwind of the casket, and even there the odor of his father's remains reaches them. Cersei holds a silk handkerchief to her nose sprinkled with lavender and belladonna, her eyes blank and empty; Tommen sits huddled beside her holding one of his beloved kittens.

Jaime watches the boy across from him closely, wondering at the young man. He is both Jaime's son and nephew, but to his dismay the man feels no more and no less for him than Joffrey. _This delicate boy just on the cusp of adolescence is king on the Iron throne, with only Cersei and Margaery to aid him-gods save us all._

Cersei never allowed him to hold his own children, and so he spent their childhood contenting himself with watching her enjoy them. Since his return, however, Jaime has discovered it is no longer enough to be a casual observer to his surviving son's daily life, and has secretly been taking the boy riding when his mother is occupied with other matters in hopes that, even if only in a small way, he will be able to shape the man his son will become.

"It is not to be born; they must bury Father immediately, brother. This cannot go on much longer, for all the presumed honors these men wish to bestow upon him," Cersei's voice pulls him out of his thoughts. "Have you seen Father? His mouth-it has begun to-"

"Dry, yes, and pulling at the corners, almost as though he is smiling," Jaime adds dryly, staring out of the crimson and gold brocade curtains at the mourners fainting alongside the road. He is both amused and annoyed to hear his sister act as though she has never seen a dead body.

"Must you be so vulgar in front of your nephew? He is a child!" She snaps, her eyes flashing angrily at him.

At one time it would have caused him pain, knowing he angered her, she who has shared his emotions, both good and bad, from the time they were born. Upon returning to King's Landing, he has found the woman he loved died long ago and left the cold hearted, beautiful shell sitting across from him in its place. Gazing at her now, Jaime feels nothing at all.

"My _nephew,_ as you say, is a child no longer; he is king, and if he does his due diligence to the kingdom, his grandfather will be only one of many men he will see in such a state during his lifetime. I killed a man when I was not much older than the lad, and he best get used to such necessary unpleasantness or I fear this royal life you have clawed out for him will be most trying indeed."

"Uncle," Tommen smiles shyly at him. "I have been reading the book Uncle Tyrion gave Joffrey on his wedded day. Grand Maester Pycelle had it fixed for me on my coronation, and I mean to commit it to memory so I will grow up to be brave, just like you."

"I have no doubt you will be far braver," Jaime smiles, patting the boy's leg. "You already have the fine makings of a fearless and noble king, and need only the years to catch up to you."

"Do you really think so, Uncle?" Tommen asks, his eyes wide with interest.

"I know so. I have served three kings as a member of the Kingsguard, have I not? Even your kittens are brave," Jaime playfully nudges him in the stomach and then ruffles his hair. _So like Joffrey's,_ he thinks with a twinge. _How did we ever produce such a monster?_

Cersei turns sharply to him once more and glares at him. He and Cersei have shared the uncanny ability to read each other's thoughts clear into adulthood, though it seems to Jaime that it began to fade after Cersei married Robert. Along with a myriad of other things, their time spent apart has caused him to lose sight of some of the unique intimacies of being a twin. Cursing himself, he resolves to be more careful around her, for he cannot risk Cersei discovering his plan.

His mind once more drifts to Brienne, wondering if she received his crow in time. Before she left, he did all he could for her, trying to make up for all the abuse he heaped upon her during the trip back to King's Landing. He stuffed her saddle bags of gold dragons and silver stags, provided her with new mail, hauberk and saddle made especially for her, and a horse, along with a letter sealed and signed by Tommen saying she is about the King's business and that she is not to be hindered.

Jaime had even given her his shield he bore from Harrenhal, hoping she might look upon it as a symbol of the mutual respect that grew between them during their travels. Even with all of his preparations, he still cannot shake the feeling that what she is about to encounter on the Quiet Isle may be far more than she can handle on her own.

"Must you leave so soon after we bury him?" Cersei asks quietly. "I do not see what could possibly be so important that it demands your personal attention so soon after your return. You are needed at the capital and your duties-"

"I am _needed_ at the capital? " He scoffs. "By whom? What good is the one handed, south pawed Kingslayer to anyone? My _loyal_ brothers of the Kingsguard? You?" Angrily he leans back and glares at her. "Save your flatteries for the Kettlebacks, sister-or have you deluded yourself into believing I have not heard what you have been up to in my absence?"

"Varys," she stammers, rage glinting in her eyes.

"You think I needed _Varys_ to tell me? It is hardly the secret you believe it to be-the whole court was clambering for the opportunity to tell me. So please, do not blame the poor eunuch or insult my intelligence any further."

Suddenly he remembers Tommen is present. His eyes dart to the boy as soon as the words come out of his mouth. Seeing the boy nestled next to his mother, Jaime is relieved to find he has fallen fast asleep.

Folding her arms, she shifts her eyes away from him, swallowing hard. "I will not speak to you when you are like this."

 _She sounds just like Father when Tyrion spoke the truth. Good,_ he thinks, _now you will leave me to my own thoughts in peace._

* * *

Sandor holds Sansa close in his arms, his eyes carefully surveying the heavily forested hill country. Stranger ambles around the thick shrubs at a slow pace, picking through the briar with care. At a small clearing, a large rock face comes into view a short distance away. "We'll head over there. It might be a decent place to make camp."

As they approach, Sansa turns and smiles broadly at him. "It is a cave, my love!"

"And how would you be knowing that?" He growls low in her ear, nuzzling the nape of her neck.

"When Braden sat by me in sickbed, he taught me a few things about the forest. He told me that you can find always find caves if you follow water, and I can hear running water from inside the rock."

"A smart little bird you are," Sandor smiles approvingly, pleased that she remembers her lessons. "Braden's a good teacher." Dismounting, he leads Stranger toward the mouth of the cavern. "Let me check it out first, wife; there may be others about. Stay here now," he grunts, unsheathing his sword.

Light streams from the fissure in the crevasse above, illuminating an emerald pool at the base of a small waterfall spilling over from the creek above. A fine spray of warm mist filters into the sunlight, reflecting prismatic bands of light against the shale wall opposite the pool.

"This should do nicely," Sandor calls to her after inspecting the cave's interior. "No sign of animals, four footed or two. Clean, too. No one will come upon us; with Stranger guarding the mouth, he'll alert us to anything unusual quick enough."

Cautiously she dismounts and peers around. "Animals, you said? Are there very many wild animals here, do you think?" Sansa's Uncle Brynden once visited Winterfell and sat around the fire late at night regaling her and her siblings with tales of shadowcats. She had been frightened for weeks after.

"Fairly likely, with all this fresh water and foliage," Sandor muses. "Don't worry, wife, nothing in here is as wild and daunting as me or Stranger."

"I suppose that is true," Sansa laughs at her own foolishness while watching her husband moving their supplies inside. "It is so very warm in here." Kneeling down, she smiles at her reflection and dips her fingertips into the crystal green pool. "The water is like bathwater."

"True enough, that. It must be fed by a hot springs. Bloody hells, it's too warm. I've got to get out of this armor," he grunts, quickly unbuckling his straps.

Sansa watches him lift his heavily defined arms, his sinewy muscles rippling as he frees himself of the hauberk and gorget. Kneeling down, he loosens the strapping on his greaves and rubs his calves.

Smiling mischievously, Sansa kicks off her boots and unwraps the sash of her gown. "I am going in for a swim. Care to join me?"

"You barely learned, lass." Sandor protests even as he quickly strips off his tunic. "I don't want you to get in over your head."

Laughing, she discards her gown and breeches while holding his gaze. "Well, my teacher is welcome to jump in with me rather than stand there gaping at me."

"What if someone finds us like this?" He asks hoarsely, staring at her standing before him in her shift with a hungry gleam in his eye. Sandor had taken her twice earlier that afternoon but finds he feels irresistibly enticed by his lovely wife once more.

When she is down to her smallclothes and corset, Sansa beckons to him. "What are you afraid of? You just said we are safe in here and nothing is so frightening as you. Come join me."

"Think that's funny do you? I'm not afraid of anything," he grunts, moving closer to her.

"Prove it, then," Sansa boldly draws her hand to her waist. "Unlace me."

Laughing low, he runs his index finger up the center of her corset, allowing his fingers to graze her skin beneath the lacings. "Might be I'd rather cut you out of this damnable contraption. For fuck's sake, why do women even wear these things-just to frustrate their men?"

"No, it is for modesty and as I am rather curvy, I need it. Besides, this is my only one," she frowns, though his words send a shiver through her body. "I'll do it."

"No need to be modest, as you say, with me. I'll get you out of it quick enough, believe that." His mouth dry, Sandor deftly unfastens the bindings while holding her gaze.

"It's not so different than the lacings on my breeches." He grins wickedly at her, watching her face as he steps away from her and unfastens his lacings.

Shrugging out of the garment, she then swiftly removes her smallclothes, completely nude except for her garters and hose. Blushing, she glances down and sees his hardened cock jutting out from the thick hair below his stomach.

After six moons of wedded life, it is a familiar sight to the young woman; nevertheless Sansa is overwhelmed by a sudden feverishness at seeing his aroused state.

"Come here, woman," He roughly rasps against her neck. ""You need help with these, too?" Sandor descends to one knee and runs his hands up her legs before lightly nipping at her ribbons.

"Since you suddenly seem so willing, yes, that would be nice," she breathlessly answers while allowing her eyes to rove over his naked physique.

Watching her look him over sends a profound warmness surging through his blood. Sandor laughs low, realizing it originates from his wife. _Maybe being bonded won't be such a bad thing after all._ "See something you like, Little bird?"

"Oh, yes. " Sansa shivers once more under the touch of his warm hands brushing against her skin. _We are truly bonded, for I feel him inside me as though we are one_. For a moment she is conflicted, both hesitant to mention her emotional state to him while eager to ask if her husband he is sharing in the new, unique dimension to their encounter.

When he reaches up her thigh and delicately fingers the material where her stockings end, his touch chases all thought from her mind. Uncertain as she is as to how he will react to learning of her feelings, she does not want to do anything that may spoil the moment. "You would have made an excellent handmaiden," she teases, trying to keep her voice calm.

"Think so? You'd never leave your chambers if I was on the job, believe that," he rasped low, his voice thick with arousal. Carefully he unties the pink ribbon garters and gently unrolls the stocking on her right leg. "Might do better if you sat down," he offers huskily, leading her by the waist toward the water's edge.

"Yes," she shakily nods, the gentleness of his touch stirring her. The point of contact where his hand skims over her abdomen sends furls of heat rolling through her body. Briefly Sansa wonders at the flood of new sensations humming through her mind and heart as he leads her over to the shallow pool.

After he positions her on the stone leading into the pool, Sandor kicks off his breeches and wades in. Kneeling in front of her, he takes hold of her foot and gently moves her closer.

"Now let me at the other," he murmurs against her skin, nibbling his way toward her inner thigh while easing the hosiery from her left leg. "If I had my way, these beauties would never be hidden under those thrice damned long frocks you wear."

Sansa tries to hold her legs closed, a flush of embarrassment radiating from her face and neck. "Sandor I-I haven't bathed yet, not since we-" she manages to moan, already trembling at the feel of his tongue running along the inside of her hip.

Nuzzling into her mound, he grips her tightly and edges her closer to him, anchoring her in his arms against the stone beneath them. "Bugger that nonsense. Let me have a taste of you."

Closing her eyes, she surrenders to the feel of his wet tongue gently sipping her flesh, his powerful arms securing her body. A deep primal arousal courses through her blood, and to her utter surprise Sansa perceives that she is experiencing her husband's desire intermingling with her own.

"You-you don't mind it?"

"No, wife; I like you like this," he says, inhaling deeply. "I love the smell of you, like honeyed wine." Sandor runs his tongue in circles over the sensitive nerves of her clit. "I want to taste your sweetness on my lips," he rasps before tracing his tongue over the length of her slit. "I want to taste our lovemaking on you. Gods help me, I want my fill of you-all of you."

"Oh my," she groans, her inhibitions waning under the onslaught of his ministrations. Sandor takes his time allowing his hot mouth to gently probe her folds and tease at her flesh before plunging his tongue inside of her.

A fleeting thought about the wantonness of her pose comes into mind but is quickly eradicated by the feel of Sandor's mouth on her womanhood. The cold rock lightly scrapes against her back and thighs as she rolls her hips toward him but Sansa cannot be made to care in the haze of pleasure spreading through her body. She tips her head back and moves her legs further apart, gasping as he responds by slowly withdrawing his tongue and dipping two long fingers inside of her center.

Suckling leisurely on her nub, he begins pushing his fingers inside her in a slow rhythm. "You're already so wet for me, love, but I want more of you."

Sandor relishes watching his wife in the throes of passion and so he holds her gaze while he pleasures her, the sight of her writhing beneath him intensifying his own excitement. Sandor soon discovers he feels his wife's ecstasy blooming throughout her body.

Her breathing soon becomes shallow, and Sansa rapidly thrusts her hips to meet him, desperately trying to match the pace of his tongue. "That's the way," Sandor chuckles, his beard tickling the tender flesh of her thighs. "So sweet; like honey you are to me, lass."

Pure lust surges through her body, heightening all of her senses. A light sheen of sweat covers her skin and the cool air of the cave brushes lightly over her naked body, adding another level of sensuality to her sensitive state. "Don't stop, please," she whimpers out, digging her heels into his shoulders for purchase.

"Not until you sing for me," he growls. "Sing for me, lass." Sandor urges her as he quickens the circular motion of his tongue while adding a third finger inside of her.

Sansa cries out sharply, her moans wrought from the sensual arousal Sandor is eliciting from her body as well as his own passionate response. Heat emanates from her core as his tongue laves at her flesh, setting every nerve in her body aflame. Trembling, she whispers out, "Sandor, gods yes!"

Sandor responds by running his hot tongue over her slit, dipping his tongue inside her while continuing thrusting his fingers. Gripping his shoulders, Sansa cries out again as passion suffuses throughout her body. Every muscle in her body tenses until her pleasure culminates into the sweet contentment of release.

Gasping for air, Sansa struggles to slow her breathing. Blushing, she glances down at her husband nestled between her legs to see Sandor looking up at her with a smug look of satisfaction on his face.

"A sweet song indeed, Little bird. Might be I'll hear another from you," he rasps, kissing a path up to her navel.

"Yes," she breathlessly answers, pressing herself into his hands. Holding his face, she kisses him deeply, all the while impatiently arching her back and grinding her thigh into his manhood.

"You know another song, Little bird?" He growls, lowering his lips to her breast before taking it into his mouth. Gently he teases her nipple with his teeth waiting for her reply.

Sansa whimpers in response, and at the sound Sandor feels her aching need for him permeating his body and heart. Pausing, the man is startled to discover her heated response to him fills his senses; to experience her craving for him is intensely emotional for him, a man whose life has been mostly spent devoid of love until the Little bird.

Her desire is all consuming, powerful and yet tender, and Sandor discovers it warms his heart and fuels his desire for her. Briefly, he is overwhelmed by the feel of her and slows his ministrations while considering the deeper connection the bond has brought to their lovemaking.

"What is it?" She dazedly asks.

"'Tis nothing; I'm admiring your beauty, love." Running his hands over her slowly, he pulls her close and starts rolling his hips against her thigh.

Sansa spreads her legs further and wraps them around his waist while burying her hands in his hair. "Come into me, my love."

Gasping, he grinds against her womanhood, coming perilously close to the edge of losing his control. Sansa moans and draws his thigh up between her legs, tilting her hips so her nub rubs against his cock. Pressing his manhood against the length of her slit, he parts her folds and begins sliding wetly over her womanhood.

Anticipation boils up within him, leaving Sandor struggling to draw out her pleasure as long as possible. Sansa moans and cries out his name and then suddenly tenses up in his arms, her entire body shuddering with the force of her release as she lowers herself onto his manhood.

Groaning, he grips her tightly while her satisfaction engulfs his senses. Now that their bodies are joined, his ability to share her feelings reaches an all-consuming intensity. "Sansa," he rasps low, his voice choked with emotion.

"I know, love; I feel it, too," he hears her whisper in his hair as she slowly rocks her hips against his length. Gasping he shudders beneath her, stilling her movements.

Taking his face in her hands, Sansa stares into his eyes. "Look at me. I want this with you-your body, your heart, the bonding between us. I want _all_ of you."

Hot tears sting the back of his eyes, and slowly he nods, rolling her onto her back in the shallow water. "As I do with you."

"Then take me," she gasps out, pulling him deeper inside with legs.

Sandor moves her on the ledge and settles her into the water with him, laying his head to her breasts. His eyes drift closed for just a moment, savoring the feel of being one with her both in body and heart.

Sansa gasps beneath him; the powerful surge of his emotions combining within her takes her breath away. "My love! I-"

"I know," he shudders in her arms, momentarily stilling his movements to absorb the wave of new sensations spreading over them. Slowly, Sansa begins moving her hips, whispering words of love in his ear.

With a low moan, Sandor begins thrusting his cock inside of her in a fast pace. With each thrust Sansa cries out, her inner walls gripping him tightly as she squeezes his shoulders and pushes against him, matching each of his movements with her own.

As Sandor loves her, each sensation is more pronounced, his body knowing a heightened state of awareness as never before. The warm water surrounding their bodies, Sansa's hair brushing against his face, the feel of her small body in his arms, the tight wetness of her womanhood, her long legs wrapped tightly around his waist, her love and acceptance of him-all engulf his senses at once until he feels everything around them has fallen away, leaving only the two of them and the world they have found in each other.

Sandor's large hands are gripping her thighs too tightly, his thrusts becoming faster and more erratic and yet he cannot bring himself to slow down, as though he is captive to his connection with her, lost in her body and heart.

Beneath him, Sansa arches her back, her walls contracting tightly around him, and her stomach shudders once more as her whole body begins trembling in his arms.

Sandor loses himself in the moment, and sheathing himself deep inside of her, he spills his seed and closes his eyes, savoring all of his beloved wife. After several moments, his senses return and he quickly releases his grasp on her with a small chuckle.

"You'll have bruises on the morrow, wife. I'll make an arnica rub for it when we get back to the cabin. Elder brother taught me how, it eases swelling and aches."

Clinging to him, she sniffles against his neck, "Please, do not release me just yet. I-I could not bear it, not after-"

Her voice sounds pained, almost desperate in his ears. Sandor knows if their shared experience was emotional for him, it must be even more so for his gentle, kind hearted wife. "I won't lass, I've got you." Rubbing small circles on her back, he whispers, "Shh now, it's alright. Neither of us is accustomed to such closeness." After a moment he says lightly. "You can't be comfortable in this position, though."

Sansa looks dazed, sleepy and contented. She nuzzles down closer to him. "I don't mind so very much."

Lifting her out of the water with him, he carries her to the furs while still wrapped in his embrace. Gently he covers her with the furs and lies down beside her. "You will in a while, I fear; forgive me, I got carried away there for a bit."

"As did I," she giggles softly, brushing the hair from his face.

Turning serious, he stares into her eyes. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, my love," she smiles up at him.

"I love, you, wife. I need you to know, that is to say, I need to _tell_ you that I _never_ will regret being bonded to you, love-for all my bloody foolishness earlier." Caressing her cheek with his finger, he searches her face. "Say you believe me, that you feel the truth of my words. Say it."

"I do, Sandor, I feel it in my heart," she whispers, placing his hand over her breast and leans forward to kisses him. "I will _never_ regret being bonded with you. How could I? I never thought I could have such closeness with anyone. It is a gift too beautiful for words."

"Aye that it is; the bond, it feels brilliant and not just in body. I know you like to talk about how you feel," he offers awkwardly.

"It is strange, but I feel almost as though we already have discussed it. It feels like-well, like our hearts spoke to each other as we made love." Shaking her head, she gently strokes his chest. "You must forgive my foolishness. I'm chirping, I know. I am still quite dazed by the experience."

"No, no, you mustn't say such, wife," he says, pulling the furs closer to her. Somehow she once again has put his very thoughts to words the moment they entered his mind. "I feel just the same. Lay back, love, we both should get some rest now."

Sandor awakens a few hours later with a start, blinking several times so his eyes will adjust in the low evening light. The orange glow of sunset streams down from the top of the cave.

Looking down, he sees Sansa is still sound asleep curled into his chest. Her dark auburn hair reflects a brilliant copper in the sunlight, her soft breathing warm against his skin. Her smooth cheek stands pale against the dark hair of his chest, and he gently caresses the curve of her face. "Time to get up, Little bird. Elder brother will be waiting for us shortly."

Stretching her long limbs, Sansa slowly moves away from him. "Oh love, I wish we could just stay for a bit."

After a minute of thought, he nods, moving to see the position of the sun. "Might stay for a bit. I'll go catch us some supper."

"Do I have time for a bath?" She smiles shyly at him.

"You and your baths, and blushing like a maiden at that," Sandor shakes his head with a grin. "I never took so many baths as I've had since we wed. Go on then," he grunts pulling on his breeches and following the rock trail leading up to the top of the cave. "I'll take on myself after we eat."

She watches him worriedly, wringing her hands. "Where are you going?"

"Up here, lass-where there's a creek there's fish to be had. Don't fret, now. I spent half my boyhood up trees and climbing rocks. Stay in that shallow end, you hear me?" He calls, disappearing through the crevasse.

"Yes, I will." Pursing her lips, she wraps herself in a fur and pads over to Sandor's saddle bags, retrieving his soap and rag. Gingerly she lowers herself into the warm water, surprised at the sight of the bruises blooming on her thighs and waist.

Their lovemaking had been intense and beautiful in an otherworldly, dreamlike way. It took hold of all of her senses to the point she did not realize the strength with which he was gripping her. Lost in thought, she mulls over the experience, wondering at what uncanny endeavors brought about the connection between them.

Sansa heard of the Stark bonding her entire life from Maester Luwin, always followed by the reassurance that the Kings of Winter long ago no longer bestowed such gifts since the dawning of a more civilized age in Westeros. After witnessing the Lannister's atrocities firsthand, Sansa doubts only the veracity of her beloved maester's words, not the sincerity of his teaching.

Sansa had sensed her husband was as astounded by the awakening of their powerful connection as she. While lathering and rinsing her body, she decides she will ask Sandor if he thinks it wise to discuss it with Elder brother.

While she finishes dressing, Sandor reappears holding a trout line full of fish. "Oh, my, I cannot believe you caught all of those and dressed them out so quickly."

Shaking his damp hair, he says smugly, "And had a bath at that."

Laughing, she hands him a towel. "Well then, let us fix them-I am rather hungry," she says, feeling the color rise in her cheeks.

When they finish supper, Sandor hurriedly loads up Stranger once more, pausing to watch the sun finally dip low on the horizon. "We'll get to the Hermit's Hole just in time."

"Sandor," Sansa begins hesitantly, "Do you think we should tell Elder brother about what has happened to us?"

"Fuck no, Little bird! He took a vow of celibacy, wouldn't be fair," he barks out a harsh laugh, his eyes twinkling at the deep blush his words bring to her cheeks.

"No, silly, not _that_ ; I mean, the bonding Father has brought to us. I left Winterfell before Maester Luwin explained very much about such things; perhaps as a holy man he has some understanding of the phenomena that will help us."

Heaving a sigh, he nods slowly. "Aye, it may be wise. We need to know all we can about it, true enough. I'll bring it up to him."

"Thank you, husband," Sansa whispers, tenderly kissing and caressing his face.

"Let's go, wife. We have a long ride ahead of us," Sandor grins before spurring Stranger deeper into the hillside.


	46. Brienne Reaches the Quiet Isle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I do understand your point, Sandor: a fighting man would know better than to send common sellswords after one such as yourself, a man trained at Casterly Rock and King's Landing from his boyhood and known battle his entire adult life. Whoever it is, they sent those men on a suicide mission, and perhaps they meant it to be so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is mention of the incident in the Saltpans similar to what is in canon. I have placed an asterisk (*) next to the paragraphs for those who wish to skip it and read the rest of the story.

High above the mudflats, Sandor finally locates the Hermit's Hole deep in the heavily wooded forest. The cave is buried beneath emerald vines and red and blue-green moss, and buried into the side of a steep hill with only a wooden door at the entranceway to reveal its existence.

Sandor quickly surveys the area before setting Sansa beside him and leading Stranger on foot into the thick underbrush. Once satisfied they are safe, he puts the key to the lock and opens the door.

The interior reveals a warm and snug space within the featureless cave. Tall ivory beeswax candles cast a warm glowing amber light over a large drawing room. Pine and flax colored woolen rugs lay over the stone floor. Vibrantly colored embroidered tapestries depicting each virtue of the Seven adorn the walls.

A burled wood table and intricately carved weirwood bench sit in front of a rustic leather trunk. Several tall cases filled with religious volumes stand in each corner and chairs of various sizes form seating arrangements in the center of the chamber.

"Sansa, what in Seven hells is this?" Sandor grunts, lowering his large frame cautiously into a chair. "I'm afraid I'll break something in here. Even the damned ceiling is far too low for the likes of me."

"Sandor, you are larger than most in all respects, love," she blushes, earning a sharp laugh from her husband.

"Bloody hells but I've corrupted you," Sandor grins, "I like you this way."

"My love, just look at these! The cups shine like gold but indeed they are not! Each is carved from driftwood and no two are the same," Sansa marvels as she holds them up to the light. "Are they not beautiful?"

"If you say so, Little bird," her husband sighs, leaning his head against the wall with a sigh.

At the sound of keys rattling, Sandor springs to his feet while Sansa anxiously returns the cups to their places, a mortified look darkening her face.

Sheathing his short sword, Sandor barks out a laugh while watching her fumble around as Elder brother opens the door. "You look like a little girl who stole a lemoncake, woman."

"Sandor, hush now." Sansa frowns at him.

Elder brother enters the room with a large smile. "Sandor, Lady Sansa, I am so very relieved to find you both safe here."

"Thank you so much for welcoming us into your private sanctum, Elder brother. It is most generous of you." Sansa smiles, smoothing down her skirts and offering her hand. "We are so very sorry for the trouble we have caused you. It is very disagreeable, I know."

"Think nothing of it child; it has been a pleasure getting to know the two of you, and trouble follows all of us these days. Sandor, you heard the rider-he made such a noise, I had no doubt that you would."

"Aye, that he did, and none too smart behavior for a soldier. What was it about?" Sandor asks, glancing at his wife.

 ***** "A young, eager Lannister soldier bringing warning of a terrible rapist gang raiding across the Saltpans. We brothers of the Seven have faced these sorts of men in the past but this case is singularly sadistic in nature." The Elder brother swallows hard and looks away, his uncomfortable behavior piquing Sandor's curiosity.

"That is something coming from a former man of battle," Sandor rasps low.

"Indeed. I treated one of the young women who survived the initial attack and her injuries were most grievous, most grievous indeed."

Sansa instinctively moves closer to Sandor, who wraps her close in his arms. "May the Seven bless and keep her," she whispers. "Where is the young lady now?"

"Lady Sansa, she has mercifully gone to the Seven Heavens," Elder brother sighs heavily. "Elder McCann is burying her now along with Brother Clement. He was selling our mead there when the attack took place. They killed him because he would not break his vow of silence."

Solemnly the Elder brother continues, "Sansa, please forgive me, but I would prefer to relate the rest of the incident to Sandor privately. What I have to say is not fitting for the ears of a lady, and would only upset you."

"Oh, yes, of course," Sansa says, a slight quiver in her voice. "I will remain in prayer while you finish your conversation."

Sandor frowns as he places his hands on her waist and feels a sharp shiver coursing through her when he settles her beside him. Sansa shifts closer and take his hand. "It'll be alright, love," he whispers in her ear, patting her on the leg. "You saw firsthand how I dealt with men who would treat a woman thus in the past, now. I'll damn well do it again, remember that."

"Yes, yes I remember. I am fine, Sandor, and I am sure we are all safe enough here," She shakily responds, reluctantly turning loose of him.

"If we could step in the back for a moment, Sandor. Please, Lady Sansa, set your mind at ease. We are very protected inside this cave. It has kept the holy brothers safe for centuries. We will only be gone for a brief time."

"Don't move me completely out of her sight," Sandor rasps low when they move behind a painted screen. "Sansa must be able to see me; she needs me close after such news."

 ***** "I know. Forgive me, Sandor, I do regret any undo suffering the situation undoubtedly cause her. It is only that the poor smallfolk girl was brutalized and bitten as though an animal attacked her. She was viciously and repeatedly raped as well. In all your years serving in in the Crownlands and Westerlands, have you ever come across any man who attacks in this manner?"

Sandor runs his hands through his hair, lost in thought. "Aye, many of them who do the latter but as for the manner of attack you described, I know of only one. Scum he is, one of the worst the Seven hells ever cursed this earth with-he goes by the name Biter. Gained a reputation for fighting feral dogs bare handed among the common soldiers I trained. He was also known for rough as hell on the whor-um, _working ladies_ in Flea Bottom. Not many survived him, so said a red headed woman I visited from time to time."

"The men say he roared like a beast as he went through town."

"That can't be, the Biter doesn't speak; his tongue was cut out some years ago. It must have been Rorge, the man he runs with. Last I heard they were at Harrenhal under Amory Lorch of House Lannister and forced into service in preparation for the Blackwater battle."

Elder brother shakes his head. "I have met Amory Lorch, one of many of Lord Tywin's brutal knights. His nephew Anderly is the young man who brought news of the so-called red wedding. Unfortunately he recognized you and Sansa several weeks ago."

"Fuck," Sandor mutters low. "Why would Tywin send my dead brother's pets after us? It's not like him to entrust an important task to sellswords. If I know the old Lion, it's more likely he would send the Lannister army here to collect Lord Eddard's daughter."

"Yes, I agree with you Sandor. It is most strange indeed," Elder brother places his hand on Sandor's shoulder. "There is more; the Lannister soldiers believed the perpetrator was you until I spoke with Captain Manderly."

"Me? Why, for fuck's sake?"

"The man who led the sack of the Saltpans was wearing your Hound's helm, and the attacks started around the same time it went missing from the lichyard."

Sandor whistles low. "So as far as the Lannisters are concerned, it is the Hound raping and pillaging, is that the way of it?"

"I'm afraid it is so."

"I should have melted it down, as you offered."

"Aye, they call you the Mad Dog of the Saltpans," Elder brother shakes his head, "I should have buried the helm, Sandor, forgive me. However, I assured the soldiers that the Hound is dead. I vowed on my holy appointment before Captain Manderly that it is not you who is committing these crimes."

"The Mad Dog, eh?" Sandor snarls low, sounding very much like the epithet. "Those bastards take me for my brother, as though being born a Clegane is a crime."

"It would seem so, yes. I am sorry, Sandor."

"Bloody hells, a rapist of all things. I was never one to do such, and any man I served with knows it. I had my share of women after battle when my blood was up, you best believe, but they were always well paid and never by force."

"And your gentleness with your wife is a testament to the truth of your words, Sandor. The Seven forgive me, I wish I could say the same," Elder brother quietly says, staring at the ground.

"As a knight, my vows were soon forgotten when my blood was up after battle. _In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend and protect the innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women,"_ the Elder brother repeats by rote _. "_ Do you remember hearing men say those words in the Great Sept of Baelor _?"_

Sandor spits on the ground. "Aye, and saw them disgrace themselves soon after, too."

"Well, I did not disgrace myself in battle. I had women too, and there I did disgrace myself, for some I took by force."

Sandor glares at him, his deep eyes glittering angrily for a moment. "As is the way of most knights, it seems," he rasps low. "For all their bloody vows, they are quick enough to throw them over. Be glad you're no longer one, for your sake."

"Indeed I am, and even if I had not died on the Trident, I believe I was never well suited to the life. I might have died even at my own hand, so miserable was I over my past sins."

After a moment, Elder brothers adds, "I would rather you not share my disgrace with your wife. I believe it would frighten her. Sandor, be assured that witnessing Sansa's suffering plagues me, and my conscious bleeds anew over my past sins when I see the fear in her eyes."

He has put his share of women in the ground and Sandor understands the feeling well, though he does not admit it to the holy man. _Elder brother discovered religion and healing as a means of atonement; and I found my own in loving and protecting my very own Maiden._ After a moment, he rasps, "Did Captain Manderly believe you?"

"Yes, he did, though the rest of his men are unsure. It seems they have you held up as a mythical monster of sorts; even the very name Clegane seems to inspire their fear."

"Word of my brother's horrors have carried far and wide throughout Westeros. Half those greenboys are scared of Gregor even though he is in the ground," Sandor darkly comments. "The thing that makes no sense to me, though, is why would Tywin Lannister send these characters to the Quiet Isle?"

Straightening up, the holy man leans closer. "I do not think he did. Sandor, Tywin Lannister is dead."

"Dead?" Sandor shouts in disbelief.

Sansa looks over at the men questioningly. "Who is dead?"

"Tywin Lannister is dead, love."

"Oh," Sansa replies absently.

"Well the man used up his luck years ago, it's to be expected. Who killed the old Lion?"

"The soldiers said no one knows for certain, but there are whispers that he was poisoned by one of Baelish's female employees. Jaime Lannister is just back in King's Landing and the queen regent was due to be married to Ser Loras Tyrell in a fortnight."

"The Kingslayer is back, eh?

Elder brother nods. "Yes, though a Kingslayer no longer. He lost his sword hand, and was brought back by a large female knight in the service of Sansa's mother, Lady Catelyn, as was."

"Those soldiers gossip like a bunch of bored fishwives," Sandor smirks. "The golden Lion needs a woman to guard him, huh? I'm surprised the men would say such out in the open about their new liege lord."

"They spoke rather freely, it is true. They thought I was not listening, so busy was I attending the young lady."

"Well, Jaime would never bother himself with me or Sansa, believe that. Poison is expensive, a highborn woman's weapon, and if Tywin meant to wed Cersei to Loras, it doesn't exactly take a greenseer to figure out what happened there. Still, who would send sellswords here after us? Someone with shit for brains, I'll say that much for them -and that isn't the Kingslayer by half."

"Sandor, your language, please," Elder brother frowns. "I would have you choose the words you use more carefully in my home."

"Aye," the man mutters and then snorts while fingering the handle of his sword.

Ignoring him, Elder brother continues, "But I do understand your point, Sandor. Any fighting man would know better than to send common sellswords after one such as yourself, a man trained at Casterly Rock and King's Landing from his boyhood and known battle his entire adult life. Whoever it is, they sent those men on a suicide mission, and perhaps they meant it to be so. Think on it, Sandor: who else may be interested in retrieving Sansa and killing you in the process?"

Sandor snorted, "Half the Seven Kingdoms. And killing me is the only fucking way they would ever be able take her!"

"Captain Manderly wants to meet with me in the septry on the morrow, and was rather secretive about making the request he was, saying there is a special person with a message for me. Mayhaps we will know more then."

"Bloody hells," Sandor mutters. "That isn't safe, man."

"Sandor, I invited him to break his fast with me. I do not believe he has any ulterior motive, and Elder McCann will join us there. Septon Meribald should also arrive by then as well. I would like you to be there, too. You must remain as the innocuous gravedigger, however, no matter what takes place. Do you think you can do that?"

Shrugging, Sandor glances toward his pensive wife absently wringing her hands in the chair, her back as straight as a pin. "Aye, I'd like to hear whatever these soldiers have to say firsthand."

"My thought exactly. Lady Sansa will remain well hidden here in the Hermit's Hole, if it pleases you. No one even knows the location of the place and Elder McCann will stay with her."

"Alright but he'd better not fawn over my wife, that one," Sandor slowly assents, his mouth twisting into a half grin. "Let's go back and let Sansa know your plan, Elder brother."

"Yes, allow me to set her mind at ease," Pausing, he adds, "Perhaps the two of you should stay here for a few days, just until the truth of the situation become clearer. What say you?"

"Aye, that suits me fine. Sansa won't mind it. She'll probably be more at ease surrounded by all of your religious objects."

"Very good then," Elder brother smiles and then leads Sandor into the living room.

"Lady Sansa, I suggested to Sandor that the two of you consider living here for a few days, just until everything is sorted out. I will take my ease at the septry. What say you?"

Sansa brightens immediately, and turns hopefully toward her husband. "That would be most agreeable and generous of you, Elder brother. Sandor, what do you think of the idea?"

"I'll sleep anywhere, Little bird, you know that," he says wearily.

"Then it is settled," Elder brother clasps his hands. "Sandor has a few details of our discussion to relate, I will leave you to it. He will be joining me for a conversation with a guest on the morrow, and Elder McCann will stay in prayer here with you. We'll return as soon as we are able."

Sansa hesitantly agrees before glaring at her husband. "As it pleases you."

Elder brother pats her hand. "Please, do not fret or be angry with him; it is my idea. Try to rest and do say your prayers, Lady Sansa. With the blessing of the Seven we will have the answers we seek by this time tomorrow. You must have faith, dear."

"I am not angry, merely confused. Of course, I will say my prayers and cooperate with you Elder brother, thank you."

"Thank you, Lady Sansa. I'll be on my way, then," the holy man says, tucking in a short sword under his vestment.

When he notices the look of astonishment on Sandor and Sansa's face, he adds, "The gods help those who are prepared."

* * *

"Saltpans is just across the water," Septon Meribald points across the bay. "The brothers will ferry us over on the morning tide shortyly."

The water that separates the island from the shore quickly recedes before their eyes, leaving behind a wide swath of mud and tidepools barely visible in the early morning fog.

"Why do they call it the Quiet Isle?" asks Podrick nervously, watching Brienne's somewhat tense bearing.

"Those who choose to make the Quiet Isle home are penitents who seek atonement for their sins through meditation and prayer-both of which are silent activities as I am sure you are aware, young man. Only the Elder Brother is allowed to speak and the proctors are permitted to speak one day a sennight."

"But why?"

"A vow of silence is an act of repentance, a sacrifice to demonstrate our devotion to the Seven. If we are to traverse the mudflats, you must climb off your horses and cross in my footsteps. Only the faithful may cross safely so follow my lead carefully. None of you are wicked, of that I am certain, but it is most prudent to be careful where you set your feet."

With that Septon Meribald starts his walk toward the deep rushing waters of the bay. Cautiously, Lady Brienne follows in his steps with Podrick closely at her heels. After a ways, Septon Meribald turned abruptly toward the south and continues for another hundred yards, leading them between two shallow tidal pools.

The black mud is cut with swathes of golden sand, and massive gray and red rocks sunken into the landscape for centuries dot the way. The air carries the stench of brine and something else Brienne cannot identify, and over it all, the sickening smell of death.

"Forgive me, Septon Meribald but we seem to be walking every which way. Is this really necessary? As I told you earlier, my business is of the utmost importance and I need make haste."

"You must have faith, Lady Brienne" Septon Meribald grins at her. "Believe, persist, and follow, and we shall find the peace we seek."

"I don't need peace," she adds irritably, patting the hilt of Oathkeeper. "What I need is to deliver this message from Ser Jaime to the Elder brother," Lady Brienne mutters to herself, and behind her she hears Podrick chuckling softly.

Three men clad in the brown robes of the brothers of the Seven soon come into view, standing patiently waiting for them along the shore.

"Septon Meribald," the first man calls out. "You are welcome, you and your companions as well."

"Brother Narbert, please meet my companions: the young squire here is Podrick Payne of the Westerlands, and this is brave knight is Lady Brienne, known as the Maid of Tarth."

Brother Narbert curls his lip. "You brought a woman here?"

"Yes, brother." Brienne leans closer, eying the man. "Do you have no women here?"

"Well, not at present, no," Brother Narbert answers hesitantly.

Brienne's heart sinks in her chest. _Oh, no, have I missed them?_ She is exhausted and anxious and wants to shake the nervous little man so he will tell her more, but instead she smiles at nods once. Podrick coughs behind her.

"Those women who do visit come to us sick or hurt, or their men are, or they are heavy with child. The Seven blessed our Elder Brother with healing hands."

"With the blessing of the Seven, the woman I am seeking will have suffered none of those things."

Septon Meribald hastily adds, "Lady Brienne was once sworn into the service of Lady Catelyn Stark and as of now is on another very important mission," Septon Meribald says low.

Brother Narbert raises his eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Yes, but I am not at liberty to say any more at present. As Septon Meribald related, I am sent to Elder brother by Ser Jaime Lannister."

"Yes, well, then I should take you up to Elder Brother at once. He will speak with you after he breaks his fast. He is in another meeting since early this morning. Come and I will tend your horses."

The stable is well kept but more than three-quarters empty. Brienne notes that at the far end, well away from the other animals, a huge black stallion snorts at the sound of their voices before kicking the door of his stall.

"A handsome beast," Podrick remarks, throwing a suggestive glance at Brienne before nodding at her. "Familiar, too."

"Handsome he may be, but surely born in the Seven hells, that one. He bit off Brother Gillam's ear."

Podrick gasps. "The horse bit off your ear?"

Brother Gillam nods and lifts his cowl.

"Whose horse is this?" Lady Brienne asks casually. "He's a fine warhorse the likes of which I haven't seen in ages."

"We must go; Elder Brother will no doubt be waiting," Septon Meribald smiles, quickly leading them out of the stables while skillfully avoiding her question.

They pass a dozen brothers of the order on their way who stare curiously at them. On the upper slopes, they passed a lichyard where they notice an exceptionally large brother digging a grave.

Elder Brother smiles and hurries over the uneven grassy knoll toward them. "It is always a glad day when new faces arrive! Alas, we see so few of them here."

 _The Elder Brother looks nothing like what I expected_ , Brienne muses. _I doubt he has seen his forty-fifth nameday, hardly an elder. The man has the look of one who once served as a knight, made to break bones rather than to heal._

As Brienne draws near to Elder brother, the gravedigger's spade of dirt spills at her feet. "Be more watchful there," chides Brother Narbert. "The Elder brother might have gotten a mouthful of dirt, or you may have caused Lady Brienne of Tarth offense."

"Oh, rest assured, there is no offense taken," Lady Brienne smiles.

"A novice," explains Narbert. "He improves every day."

"You are excused, Brother Narbert," Elder brother sternly glares at him.

"Who is the grave for?" Podrick asks, peeking into the freshly dug grave.

"Brother Clement, the Seven have mercy on his soul."

"Was he old?"

"Please, forgive my squire, Elder brother," Brienne apologizes and shoots a look at Pod.

"I beg pardon, Elder brother," the young man sheepishly bows.

"The young man asks a reasonable question, Lady Brienne, and with your permission I will address it."

"You are most kind, Elder brother."

"No, he was not and it was not the years that killed him, young man. He died of wounds he got at Saltpans. The poor man had taken some of our mead to the market there on the day the band of outlaws sacked the town."

"Was it the Hound as rumors have said?" asks Brienne. "I have heard such claims the entire way here."

"No, my lady, it was another, just as brutal. I tended a woman who was severely injured in the raid. She did not survive either."

"The war has never come here until this incident?"

"It was not war that wrought this-it was outlaws. Our prayers protect us."

"I understand," Brienne murmurs softly while watching the gravedigger moving the dirt with deft skill.

"Too many corpses, these days." The Elder Brother sighs. "Our gravedigger knows no rest. We bury them side by side, Stark and Lannister, Frey and Darry." He turns to Septon Meribald. "I hope that you have time to absolve us of our sins. Since the raiders slew old Septon Bennet, we have had no one to hear confession."

"I shall make the time, Elder brother," Septon Meribald offers.

"Did they burn the sept at Saltpans?" Brienne asks carefully, watching the smiles on the men's faces vanish at her words.

"They burned everything at Saltpans, save the castle, as it was made of stone. Ser Quincy Cox barred his gates when the outlaws entered the town and sat safe behind stone wall while his people suffered. Very few smallfolk survived. One poor woman had been raped a dozen times, and her breasts were torn and chewed and eaten, as if by some beast. I could only ease her way into the next life."

"A true knight is sworn to protect those who are weaker than himself, or die in the attempt," Brienne gravely remarked, more to Podrick than anyone. He nodded.

"Very true, my lady, a creed I can see you have worked hard to live by, and the Seven will no doubt bless you and yours for it." The Elder Brother softly answers, making the sign of the Seven over her and Podrick.

"Thank you," Brienne whispers quietly, nudging Podrick.

"Oh yes, thank you, I've never had a blessing over me before." Podrick smiles.

Turning to Septon Meribald, the Elder brother sighs disgustedly. "When you cross over to the Saltpans, I am certain Ser Quincy will meet you with a sack of gold and ask you for forgiveness. I certainly could not offer such, not after that poor woman who died in my arms."

Septon Meribald shakes his head and clicks his tongue against his teeth in response.

"We have some modest cottages set aside for women," offers the Elder Brother. "Lady Brienne, would you allow me to show you the way?"

"Yes, thank you. Podrick, go with Septon Meribald."

"As you say, my lady."

"Before we go to the women's cottages, I wish to speak to you in private," Elder brother says, leading her a few steps away from the gravedigger.

"Yes, I have longed to speak privately with you as well. I have an important message to deliver to you, one that must not be seen or heard by anyone other than you and me."

"Before we get to that, let us speak plainly, Lady Brienne: Saltpans is abandoned, save for the castle. I wonder what brings you here. What exactly is this, as Septon Meribald informed me, important business from Ser Jaime Lannister?"

"He seeks to rescue a beautiful auburn haired highborn maiden and sends warning to the man in her company. Ser Jaime does not do this as a Lannister but to fulfill a promise to her dead mother. He regrets his family's mistreatment of the lass and wishes to see her safe."

"You speak of Sansa Stark."

"Yes," Brienne perks up, encouraged by Elder Brother's words. The gravedigger coughed deeply several times behind them but she ignores them.

"You believe this young woman is with the Hound?"

"In truth, I am not certain. She is said to have died the night of the Blackwater, but Lord Petyr Baelish insists that the Hound stole her and carried her away as his, um, wife. He has sent sellswords of the worst description in search of her. I believe that is who is truly responsible for the attacks in the Saltpans."

"Then give up this quest of yours. The Hound is dead, and in any case he never kidnapped your Sansa Stark. Find the beast who wears the helm of the Hound, and see him brought to justice."

"I have heard that from others as well. Truly I would go after the man but I am sworn to serve Ser Jaime, and my orders are to find her," Brienne says quietly. "There are others wanting to capture her and sell her to the queen, or do worse, as Ser Jaime suspects of Lord Baelish. I have to find her first. I promised Jaime. I have to try to save her or die in the attempt."

"Try taking her and you'll do just that, wench," the gravedigger snarls, throwing off his cowl and revealing the Hound.


	47. A Lion and a Hound Seek to Protect a Little Bird

Once Jaime learned Sansa Stark was in jeopardy, the man has been driven to distraction. He was at a loss to explain the preoccupation to go to her, neither would it be denied, and the day after his father’s burial Jaime set out across the Westerlands toward Maidenpool. From there he planned on ferrying to the Quiet Isle, and to Brienne.

 _I’ve lost a hand, a father, a son, a sister, and a lover, and soon enough I will lose a brother. And yet they keep telling me House Lannister won this war._ For as long as he can remember, he slept and ate and breathed Cersei, and within her happiness laid his own. When they were apart, he longed for nothing more than to return to her. That all changed since the war, however; and now whenever Jaime stood before Cersei, all he could think of was the female knight he commissioned to find Sansa.  

In their shared childhood room at Casterly Rock, where they had played hide and seek, the princess and the dragon and even shared their first kiss, Jaime listened in disbelief as Cersei cried, pleaded, and offered sex to persuade him to kill Tyrion. Strangely, he was simultaneously aroused by her touch and revolted by her suggestion. Above all else, he was disgusted with himself.

She ran her hands down the front of his breeches, cupping his manhood. “You’ll go after Tyrion and kill him for me, won’t you?  When you leave me, you will avenge our son.”

Dazed and empty, he moved away from her, knowing he could not allow himself to be persuaded into her bed. The entire trip to Casterly Rock, Jaime struggled to find an excuse to explain his departure and found it sadly funny that it was his sister who was providing the answer for him.

“Cersei, as much as I am enjoying this, in case you have not noticed, I am in no condition to kill anyone,” he chuckled and raised his right arm, waving the stump in front of her face. “I would hate to see you efforts all for naught.”

Scowling, she stopped her caresses and glared at him.

“Silently trying to gauge my usefulness to you, dear sister?”

Though he was not back to his former fighting shape by any means, once he regained his strength from the blood poisoning, Brienne had begun training him to fight with his left hand and Jaime was certain he now was competent enough to defend himself.

“I do not understand your meaning.”

Turning away, Jaime gazed out at the courtyard to hide his thoughts from her. “Let me be blunt, then; I am not the Kingslayer anymore.”

“You have another hand, don’t you?” She jested without a hint of mirth in her voice. “I am not asking you to best the Hound in battle, brother.”

“No?”

“No. Lord Baelish sent his men after that one. For all his perversions, the master of coin is rather obsessed with innocent little Sansa Stark, even in death.” Cersei smirked, running her fingers along his left arm.

“And you are not? Come now, with her youth and beauty, didn’t she worry you just a little bit?”  

Cersei snapped her eyes up to his. “Don’t be absurd. I want the Hound, and Littlefinger is nothing if not relentless. If he believes Sansa is alive and bedding the Hound, there will be no place in the seven kingdoms for Clegane to hide.”

“Well, I don’t give a fuck about the Hound or Littlefinger,” Jaime angrily turned to her. “I am speaking of Sansa Stark. You held her here even after Joffrey threw her over for Margaery Tyrell. What use could you have had for her?”

“Joffrey enjoyed baiting her; she was merely a pawn I used for your return.”

 _Now who is lying?_ Jaime bitterly thought, gripping her shoulders and staring into her eyes. “Beating her, you mean? How did you use her to ensure my return, exactly?”

Cersei wriggled out of his grasp and averted her gaze. “She was poor simple child who met a terrible end.” She paused, glancing up at him. “I did not tell Littlefinger that Osmund Kettleblack found Sansa’s dragonfly necklace inside one of the beasts-all that was left of her. I keep it here in my jewel case.”

Jaime raised his eyebrow at the large silver and ruby encrusted armoire on the opposite wall. “So, Osmund Kettleblack is the man now? Sandor Clegane without the scars, the Kingsguard call him. Well I suppose fucking you is worth wading into alligator infested waters, at least for him.” Jaime tisked. “Poor lad; I could have told him the truth of the matter and saved him the trouble.”

“It does not matter what you say; that small trinket was worth allowing that beast to ride me. Don’t look so surprised,” she sneered at him, pouring herself a glass of wine. “My sole consolation in losing her is that Robb Stark learned of the manner of Sansa’s death before Walder Frey killed him,” she continued, nuzzling the stubble of his cheek.

Gently Jaime pulled away from her. “I understand you using Osmund, but why allow Littlefinger to believe she is alive and give him means to go after Sandor Clegane?”

“The Hound hurt our son, Jaime!” Cersei snarled low. “Does that not mean anything to you? You know very well Robert never cared for him, and Joffrey looked to Clegane as a father figure from infancy. That scarred bastard threw that affection in his face when he abandoned him the night of the Blackwater. Later he went so far as to kill Gregor, who was my best man. I will see him pay for his treachery.”

She sounded so much like their father that Jaime shivered involuntarily at her words _. Of course Sandor killed Gregor; he was undoubtedly keeping the woman he loves safe,_ Jaime thought to himself. He had done the same several times over the years and could not fault Clegane for doing likewise. “It was no secret Sandor wanted Gregor dead-I would hardly consider that an affront to you.”

When she remained silent, Jaime turned toward her. “Ah, so that is the way of it? The Hound hurt Joffrey and killed your pet-mayhaps the Hound hurt _you_ as well.”

“What do you mean?” She asked weakly.

Jaime tapped his chin in thought. “Well, you were used to having the Hound at your beck and call those many years. He guarded you and your children, and helped you with them in every way Robert did not-in all the ways in which _I_ was not allowed. And then along comes lovely little Sansa, sweet and innocent and young, and your loyal dog suddenly starts following a new master right before your eyes. I supposed we should be grateful Lady Sansa is not as manipulative as you, or Clegane would have likely killed the lot of us.”

Sputtering in fury, Cersei clenched her fists before slapping him soundly.

Jaime laughed at her. “You know it will be a massacre should Baelish’s men find Clegane-is that why you would rather I go after Tyrion?”

“Tyrion is a dwarf, brother, and should present no threat to you whatsoever. The Hound, however-“ she shrugged, all of her anger expended by the blow. “You would need to be mad to face the Hound.”

“I do not delude myself. Sandor would make short work of me now.”

Cersei shifted uneasily and swallowed the last of the wine.

“I’ll go on the morrow, sister, don’t work yourself up any further.”

“I forgot how much you enjoy vexing me.”

“Well you may be in for a bit more vexation yet. First I must know more of how it happened that our brother killed Joffrey, and then I will handle Tyrion accordingly.”

“I thought you would say as much,” she pursed her lips. “I will send Osmond Kettleblack to keep you safe, and perhaps retrieve Tyrion’s squire and Sansa'a former handmaiden from Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. He may accompany you as far as the Kingsroad and with any luck, you both may come across Sandor Clegane. I am most eager to hear what both have to say.”

 _Ser Osmund is no match for Sandor Clegane, for all his reputation. Cersei wants insurance that I will keep my promise to set out and find Tyrion_.  Swallowing his protest, Jaime clenched his jaw and nodded. “A wise idea; no doubt poor Pod fled with Tyrion, though. As a matter of fact, I expect to find them both at the Wall.”

“The Wall?”

“Yes, you recall that our brother escorted Lord Stark’s bastard there. It wouldn’t surprise me to find them at Castle Black.”

“Yes,” her green eyes twinkled as she took his hand. “I had not thought of that. I am most pleased you mentioned this possibility.”

Taken aback, Jaime stared at her suspiciously, hardly able to comprehend she believed his lie so easily.

Cersei noticed his frown. “I was lost without you, Jaime,” she purred, allowing her fingers to roam over his chest. “I was afraid the Starks would send me your head. I am not whole without you.” And then she kissed him, and despite his body’s response to her, Jaime was startled to discover the completeness he once felt with her had all but vanished.

“I felt the same when I was captive to the Starks,” he answered truthfully, carefully disentangling himself from her arms. “ I am off on the morrow, sister, to seek justice with your latest conquest.”

“I knew you would,” Cersei ignored his remark and smiled triumphantly as she poured him a glass of wine.

Memories of that last night together plague Jaime all morning. After riding several hours, the massive walls of Casterly Rock fade into the distance, and by noon a tremendous sense of relief falls over the man. As glad as he is to put it behind him, however, Jaime regrets leaving Tommen. Silently he utters a prayer for the boy to remain safe. _He is only a child and does not deserve to pay for the sins of his parents._

“I hope to run into Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark myself, you know,” Osmund offers, drawing Jaime from his thoughts. “There is quite a bounty on those two.”

“You will do no bounty hunting while on Lannister business-you are Kingsguard, remember? Your orders are to go to Ser Bronn of the Blackwater’s seat at House Stokeworth and search for my brother’s squire and Lady Sansa's handmaiden, is that understood?”

“Yes, my lord, but if I encounter Sandor Clegane on the road, what would you have me do?”

 _Pray hard_ , _and run_. “Send him to join his beloved brother and be glad the gods made seven hells. One would never be enough to hold both of the Cleganes,” he answers darkly, turning his horse north on the Kingsroad.

Osmund chuckles nervously. “Trying to scare me, my lord? I am more afraid of these wolves around here, both the four and two-footed variety, than Sandor Clegane.”

“Then you are an even bigger bloody fool than I originally thought,” Jaime laughs wickedly at him, leaning forward in the saddle. “I’ve seen the man many a time in battle, and believe me, I’d take on a wolf any day over that dog.”

Osmund nods solemnly. “I saw him the night of the Blackwater Battle, he was unstoppable.” Shaking his head, he changes the subject. “It is said the four legged wolves are thick in these parts. The smallfolk believe they are demons in the skins of wolves, sent to chastise us southerners for our sins-for Robb Stark and Lady Catelyn, and for her daughters, too.”

Jaime shrugs disinterestedly. “You best avoid the wolves and the dogs, if such nonsense worries you. I’ll see you in six moons-the wall is a thousand leagues from here.”

“Gods go with you, my lord,” Osmund bows his head and then maneuvers his horse to the fork leading toward King’s Landing.

Jaime rides for an hour north before doubling back through the thick shrubbery alongside the Kingsroad. When he reaches the crossing where he and the knight parted ways, he turns his horse toward Maidenpool and set him off at a gallop.

* * *

While Sandor spends his time waiting Elder brother and Captain Manderly by digging a series of graves, he ponders the events of the night before. Sansa has suffered throughout the night, and Sandor is deeply concerned about the effect the bond is having on her mental and physical state.

After Elder brother left, Sansa ran into Sandor’s arms and burrowed against his chest. “I’m cold,” she whispered against his bare skin, and so he moved them in front of the pot belly stove. She held onto him the entire time, and he covered them both in so many furs that soon he was drenched in sweat.

“Can we sleep here in front of the fireplace?”

Sandor frowned and pulled the covers over them. “Yes, Sansa, if you wish it. Are you feeling better?”

“No,” the Little bird clung to him further, shivering.

“Are you feeling ill, wife?” He rested the back of his hand against her forehead and looked into her eyes.

“I am merely cold,” she whispered, snuggling still closer to him.

Grunting, he nodded and stroked her skin. Sandor understood Sansa’s misery was not physical, for the tangible shift in his wife’s emotions nearly overwhelmed him as Elder brother related the rider’s warning.

Though the incidents in King’s Landing and Maidenpool enraged him and prompted him to kill any man who threatened her, it had been an entirely new experience to share Sansa’s intense suffering as the holy man’s words recalled her fear.

Sandor has been sharing her stronger emotions since the cave, and as the night wore on he began to worry in earnest. _What if this bonding proved too much for her? Could such a thing drive her to madness? Sansa has always been strong, perhaps even stronger than me; surely Eddard would not bring about this attachment if she could not handle it._

The effect the bonding was having on him concerns him as well, for it was increasingly difficult for Sandor to distinguish her emotions from his own. _Just how the fuck is all this feeling supposed to bring us closer or keep us safe?  Damn me, Sansa believes this bloody bond will help us, but what if it doesn’t? What if my ability to sense her fear hinders me in battle?_

After much contemplation, he concludes that would not be the situation. Much to Sandor’s astonishment, he discerns that he has grown stronger physically and mentally since the bonding. The drive to ease her misery has reached a new plane altogether within Sandor, defying the self-doubt that typically plagues his thoughts, and even his anger and cravings for wine have been suppressed by the phenomena.

The singular need to keep her safe engulfs the man, and judging by Sansa’s behavior, she, too has been changed by the bonding. Sandor notices she started reacting to the shifts in his mood and also sought to comfort him when he was upset. Silently he asks Lord Eddard for help as he works, the man at once afraid for his wife and yet strangely comforted from the otherworldly connection between them.

Earlier that morning, Sansa begged him not to leave her with Elder McCann. “Please, Sandor, we are stronger together,” she murmured against his neckbeard, inhaling his scent and she held onto him.

The Little bird’s distress echoed within his heart while her words troubled him deeply. Holding her tightly against him, Sandor tried his best to reassure her. “It’ll be alright, love,” he rasped into her hair. “No one will hurt you, and I’ll be careful, I swear it.”

When she didn’t respond, he tipped her chin up to him. “Tell me truly: is there more than you’re letting on? You were most angry when Elder brother told you of his plan, I felt it,” Sandor’s eyes widened when she feebly tried to shift away from him. “Do you believe this fear is a warning from your Father?”

“I-I wish I knew,” she began to cry into his shoulder. “There are so many sensations rushing through my mind. It is all very confusing.”

Sansa sighed and took his hand. “I was not truly angry at either of you. I sensed your own fury and it seemed to affect my own emotions-I could hardly contain the anger that came over me.”

“Aye, I was angry indeed; I could feel your fear as well and it fueled it further.”

Snuggling against him, she rested her head lightly against his hauberk. “Is this rage what you feel all the time?”

“Aye, it is, though less so since my brother is dead.”

“Then your struggle is most difficult, my love, and I will do whatever I can to ease it for you,” she brokenly replied.

“No, lass, no matter this bond, it is not for you to bear,” he whispered into her hair, running his fingers through the long reddish copper strands. “Tell me, what else is it you feel, wife? I won’t mock you.”

Sansa shrugged slightly. “There is this overwhelming dread crushing me, but I cannot discern the source of it. It grew worse after Elder brother left. I was so very cold, as though the chill came from inside my body.”

“I feared you feverish,” Sandor solemnly responded. “You were similar when you came down with the ague, though not out of your head, thank the gods.”

“Forgive me, I know I made you most uncomfortable. We were both rather-”

Twisting one of her curls, his mouth pulled into a smile. “Naked and sweaty, which with you is never uncomfortable wife, but damned tempting, you best believe.”

Blushing, she looked up at him and her eyes reflected such intense anxiety that it nearly took his breath away. “Last night, I had nightmares of your Hound’s helm, its fangs dripping with fresh blood. In the dream I heard the howls of wolves and felt reassured.  Then there was a fight; you battled five men while another knight fought alongside you.”

“What else?” Sandor asked tersely, searching her eyes.

“Then-then I was running through the woods and I could smell the damp sand all around me. After a long while of searching, I finally found you-you had fallen to the ground with one man over you. I saw a golden lion come out of the wood and save you. It was so very real.”

“What happened then?”

“It ended, and so I never found out.”

“Sansa,” he murmured as he caressed her lower lip with his thumb. “We cannot read something into every nightmare, wife. You overheard Elder brother and I talk of horrible things right before we went to bed-and such nightmares are to be expected.”

“But what of Father?” She looked up at him with such faith it nearly broke his heart.

“I don’t know,” He put his hands on her shoulders. “If it was one of your Father’s warnings, all I can do is prepare for whatever may come. You must stay here with Elder McCann. Promise me.”

“Forgive me but I will not,” Sansa announced, her voice suddenly strong. “Dearest, if Father wishes me to go to you, I must follow his will. We are stronger together, and I cannot ignore the truth of his words. You may need me.”

Sandor regarded her closely, and grunted softly at her determined expression. Sansa was so assured that Sandor did not have the heart to contradict her.

Hearing her words sent a sharp chill creeping up his spine. Disconcerted, Sandor quickly kissed her and left the cave, glad to be out in the fresh air on Stranger’s back.

As Sandor shovels dirt not far from Lady Brienne, Sansa’s distress markedly worsens, sending waves of icy fear flowing through the man.   _This wench must be the one the Little bird fears._ At once rage boils over within him and soon Sandor is unable to resist challenging the female knight.

“You’ve found more trouble that you bargained for, wench.” He shouts, throwing off his robes.

Brienne barely manages to unsheathe Oathkeeper as Sandor’s mailed fist slams into her jaw. “You’ll not take my wife from me, damn you!”

"Sandor, stop this at once!” Elder brother demands. “You cannot accept the peace you have found here only to violate it by resorting to violence whenever it suits you. Neither you or your loved one is in danger, nor will I stand by and allow this outrage. I dare say I believed you learned better among us holy brothers.”

“Aye, I have at that,” Sandor agrees, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “But bugger her vows and your opinions about the danger! I can feel it, and she’ll not take my wife without killing me first.”

Elder brother knits his brows, confused by his words. From the barn Stranger trumpets and kicks at the sound of his master’s distress.

“Sandor, think of Sansa,” Elder brother pleads, stepping closer to the enraged man.

“I do not just think of her, I can feel her,” he growls, sending Brienne sprawling to the ground once more. “Her fear is within me, and Sansa is afraid-of you.”

“Go get Septon Meribald and Podrick at once,” Elder brother whispers to Brother Narbert. “Tell them to go to the Hermit’s Hole immediately and bring Lady Sansa or else there will be bloodshed.”

“Yes, Elder brother,” the man nods, mounting one of the horses grazing nearby.

The last blow leaves her head ringing. “Sandor Clegane-that is your destrier in the barn, then. I should have known.  Joffrey’s dog has been hiding here with the Stark girl just as Jaime thought,” she hisses, spitting blood on the ground. Brienne waits for him to move into position before slashing her sword toward his head.

Sandor easily parries her blow with a grunt. “Bugger the Kingslayer! You dare come here on Lannister business?”

“No, not Lannister business, Clegane. Ser Jaime sent me to protect Sansa Stark from Cersei and Lord Baelish, who has hired bounty hunters to search for her. Jaime sent me ahead to find the two of you. He knew you would never leave her in King’s Landing, not after how you reacted to the way his family treated her on the Kingsroad. Lord Varys confirmed Sansa did not die in the moat-Tyrion told him.”

 _So the Imp told the Spider what Shae and Bronn discovered, fuck me sideways. Why would they want to help me and Sansa? What’s in it for them?_ “Bloody hells,” Sandor curses, spitting to the ground. “All of this on the word of a kingslayer and kinslayer. And why the fuck should I trust any lion?”

“If you would stop this nonsense, I would show you!” Brienne shouts, barely managing to block another blow. “I have a letter sealed by King Tommen, and Jaime entrusted me with this sword as a sign of his sincerity. It is for Sansa Stark-“

“She isn’t a Stark anymore! Sansa is my wife; she and I are married in the sight of the old gods and the new, wedded and bedded. She’s _mine_ , and I don’t need any help from you, the Spider or Jaime Lannister.”

“Lady Sansa is your _wife_? I cannot believe that any highborn woman would willingly marry you, least of all Lady Catelyn’s daughter,” Brienne mutters even as she recalls Jaime saying that Clegane was no rapist. Taking in his scarred countenance for a moment, she fights to regain her bearing. “If you violated her, I will see you brought to justice. I intend keep my vow and return her to Ser Jaime. I will fight you if I must.”

“Sansa _is_ with her family, you stupid wench, or haven’t you been listening? I am her husband-get the bloody mud out of your ears! You’ll not take her from me but be forewarned: you are far too slow to take on the likes of me. I could have killed you a half dozen times by now.”

“Then why haven’t you?” Brienne shouts, finally managing an offensive attack against him. Sandor brutally battles her backward, managing to unsword her in the assault.

Sansa’s fear resounds in his chest unabated. Staring down at the fallen knight, Sandor begins to wonder if the woman before him is indeed not the source of her misery.

Sandor moves back from Brienne and pauses to gather his thoughts. Elder brother starts to step in but stops short when Sandor kicks away her sword and circles her.

“I won’t yield,” Brienne says defiantly.

Sandor smirks in response. “If I meant to kill you, I sure as fuck wouldn’t be standing here waiting for you to catch your breath. Walk away from us and out of respect for Elder brother I’ll let you live to see another day.” Moving into a defensive position, Sandor awaits her next effort. “I don’t know why you’re truly here but I’ll not kill you until I find out.”

Brienne knows Sandor has had more than enough opportunity to kill her and yet something is holding the man back. “I am telling you the truth, I swear it on the old gods and the new.”

Taking advantage of his preoccupation, she quickly picks up her sword and sharply slices downward toward his breastplate. Sandor easily deflects her strike and circles behind her once again. 

“Nice try. I don’t want to have to kill you on so-called holy ground, but you best believe I will, wench. Yield or my next blow will finish you off. I won’t bloody repeat myself to you again.”

“I will not,” Brienne grunts, shaking the hair from her eyes. “You said the Hound was dead,” She glances at Elder brother while cautiously moving away from Sandor. “I believed you to be a man of the Seven, a man of your word.”

Elder brother nods. “I am both, indeed, though I, too, once served as a knight. The Hound is very much dead, my lady, or he would have taken your head by now. Sandor Clegane was at rest here until trouble followed him and his wife.”

“So it is true, then? They are man and wife?”

“Yes, I wedded them myself. The Lady Sansa has not been forced by Sandor to do anything; in fact she is very much in love with her husband. It will be very apparent should you see them together.”

“I-I cannot believe it. Lady Sansa and the Hound? I must speak to Lady Sansa myself,” she mutters in disbelief while bringing down her blade against Sandor’s sword. 

Shouting, he blocks the blow and holds her weapon locked against his hilt. “Bad move, wench,” Sandor grunts, sliding the edge of his blade along her own before twisting it upward, using both hands to smash the hilt into her face. “The blade isn’t the only part of the sword you should keep your eyes on during a fight.”

* * *

Flooded with a strange, primal ferocity beyond anything she has ever before sensed from her husband, Sansa struggles to remain in prayer. As she holds her prayer wheel and entreats the old gods and the new in silence, Elder McCann sits nearby at a loss as to how to comfort her.

“Elder McCann! Lady Sansa! Open at once!” Septon Meribald pounds on the door. Podrick shouts, “Lady Sansa, it is me, Podrick Payne.  Lady Brienne and I have not come to hurt you-please, let us in!”

“What is it?” Elder McCann opens the door and steps aside for the two men.

Stunned, Sansa blinks several times as she recognizes Tyrion’s squire. “Podrick Payne? This is such a surprise. What are you doing here?”

 “It’s Sandor Clegane my lady-“ The young squire begins uncertainly.

“What about Sandor? Tell me, please, is he hurt? He cannot be, I have not felt-“ Sansa chokes out, clutching Podrick’s jerkin.

Septon Meribald takes her by the arm and leads her into a nearby chair. “No, my lady. Please you must calm yourself; your husband is not hurt but we need your help with him at once. He is challenging Lady Brienne as we speak.”

 _Lady Brienne?_ Sansa frowns, struggling to remember if she has heard the name before. “Who is Lady Brienne and why is Sandor challenging her?”

“My lady, Lady Brienne is the maid of Tarth. I have served as her squire since Lord Tyrion disappeared. She has come on a mission from Ser Jaime Lannister.”

“Ser Jaime?”

“Yes, your mother freed him against your brother’s wishes, before-“

“Yes, before the Freys,” Sansa finishes, folding her arms. “How did Ser Jaime know we were here?”

“Forgive me, but I do not know. I wish I had answers for you, Lady Sansa, but I am only a squire.”

Sansa closes her eyes and focuses on her emotions. She is stunned to discover there is no fear or anxiety accompanying the young man’s sudden appearance, nor from the news that Jaime Lannister is searching for her. Bewildered, Sansa labors to clear her mind of Sandor’s rage, which renders her unable to settle her own thoughts.

“Of course, Podrick, I understand.” She finally manages, glancing at Septon Meribald.

“Are you quite alright, my lady?”

“Yes, Septon Meribald,” she says, smoothing down her skirts. “I am only tired. Podrick, please, do continue.”

“Lord Varys spoke to Ser Jaime as well as aided his plan to search for you. Ser Jaime did not send my lady on the queen’s business. Lady Brienne said that he meant to keep a promise he made to your mother.”

The memory of the day of her father’s death rushes into her mind. “I ask you: why would I trust the word of a Lannister, of all people?” Sansa’s blue eyes flash as she glowers at him. “You-you were there, that day, when your uncle-“

“Yes, my lady,” Podrick hangs his head. “I am very sorry, more than I can say. I deeply regret Lord Stark’s death, and though it is perhaps too much to ask, I hope you will not hold it against me.”

Septon Meribald sympathetically pats the young man on the shoulder. “Perhaps in time the Seven will help the two of you mend this rift. But for now we must hurry, Lady Sansa, or I fear your husband will kill Lady Brienne.”

An intense fury flows through her body. _Sandor._ Sansa concentrates on her husband, willing him to sense her feelings. “Father, help us,” she whispers. “Please, help Sandor to know that my fear does not come from Lady Brienne. Please, do not let him kill her.”

“My lady, please we must hurry,” Septon Meribald motions to her.

“Yes, let us go. If Sandor believes Lady Brienne poses a threat to me, he most certainly will kill her.”

Podrick swallows hard, and fearfully glances between the holy men.

Elder McCann nods. “Go ahead of us; I will bring her at once.”

When they reach the rise overlooking the sept, Sansa sees Sandor standing with his sword drawn, a crumpled body lying in a heap at his feet.

“We are too late!” Sansa cries desperately.

Septon Meribald squints. “No, child, there is no blood on his sword! Let us make haste.”

Elder McCann spurs the horse toward the lichyard. Once they reach the sept, Sansa jumps down and races toward her husband.

“Sandor, oh gods, did you-“ Sansa gasps, staring down at the blond woman in shock. _She is only a few inches shorter than Sandor._

“No, I only thrashed her a bit so she’d stay down,” he grunted, waving her into his arms.

Slowly, the female knight stirs and gingerly sits up. Blood pours from her scalp, and Sansa hurriedly kneels down to tend her wound. “Easy, my lady,” she says softly, dabbing the wound with her handkerchief. “You took a bad blow to the head.”

Elder brother smiles as he meets the female knight’s startled gaze. “Allow me to make the introductions: Lady Brienne of Tarth, meet Lady Sansa Clegane of House Stark.”


	48. Of Knights and Hounds

Stepping off the ferry, Jaime grimly looks over the burned out remains of Maidenpool. “Whoever came through here brought the Seven hells with them,” he remarks to the ferryman.

“Aye, truer words never spoken, lad; tis the Hound who brought hell with him from the Blackwater battle,” the greasy old man spits, holding out his hand for coin. “He and his men brought rape and death and misery, too. I hope he burns for it a second time.”

 _Rape?_ That catches Jaime’s attention. _What the man is describing sounds more like Gregor’s work than Sandor’s._ Sandor had been hard and brutal, yes, but it was his big brother who was the real monster in House Clegane.

“Where can I buy a horse?”

“The livery is next to the brothel, lad. One of the few buildings left standing. You can’t miss it. Where you headed now?”

“The Quiet Isle,” Jaime grins at the sight of the old man’s toothless mouth gaping open.

“A fool’s journey, that.”

“I have no doubt of it,” Jaime laughs, waving his stump at the man as he hurries toward town.

* * *

_She is clearly highborn in both her manner and appearance, but is this young woman truly Sansa Stark?_   _It would not be beneath the Hound to try to ransom off another girl who resembles Lady Sansa,_ Brienne muses, peering at the lovely young woman tending her wound.

“Forgive me, my lady; am I to understand that you are, indeed, Lady Catelyn Stark’s eldest daughter?”

“Yes, my lady,” Sansa smiles at her. “I am Sansa Clegane, formerly Stark of House Stark of Winterfell. My father was Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, and my brother was King Robb Stark.”

At this Lady Brienne labors to bow low before Sansa, laying Oathkeeper at her feet. “My lady, I am Brienne of Tarth. I am sworn to find Lady Stark’s daughters in the service of Ser Jaime Lannister. He has shared certain details to which only a true born Stark would know the answers. I hope you will not object to answering a few questions. ”

“What the fuck is this?” Sandor pulls Sansa to her feet. “How would a bloody Lannister know anything of the kind? You don’t need to prove shit to this wench-“

“My husband raises a valid question. How would Ser Jaime know such information?”

“Your mother related her desire to have you and your sister returned to her and when she freed him she shared this information in hopes he would help her secure her family.”

“I see,” Sansa sighs.

“Bugger that,” Sandor snarls, raising his shortsword.

“Sandor, please, I understand her concern. Let us hear her out, my love,” Sansa says softly, placing her hand on his sword arm.

Sneering at the woman, Sandor points his weapon at her. “Bloody knights; I spit on your vows.”

After observing the fierce man for a moment, Sansa turns toward the female knight. “Lady Brienne, arise, please.”

Brienne dutifully bows once more before raising to her full height. “Thank you, Lady Sansa. Ser Jaime told me you are a most gracious and kind young woman.”

“He is very generous, considering I hardly know him; in fact I have only spoken to Ser Jaime once or twice that I recall during his stay in my family seat before I departed to King’s Landing.”

“He said as much, my lady.”

“I understand your predicament, I assure you, Lady Brienne. You are free to ask any manner of question; I would only ask that you, in turn, give me leave to ask a few questions of my own.”

“Of course, Lady Stark, and thank you,” Brienne pauses and frowns at Sandor, who sneers menacingly at her. “Ser Jaime told me that when he arrived at Winterfell you had a pet.”

Blinking back hot tears, Sansa answers, “Yes; a direwolf named Lady.”

Brienne sympathetically nods. “And your sister, Arya-Ser Jaime mentioned she was gifted with a certain object from one of your family members in Winterfell just prior to your journey to King’s Landing.”

 _Sansa can have her sewing needles. I have a Needle of my own,_ Arya’s childish voice echoes in her mind. “I believe he is referring to a thin sword my brother Jon Snow gave her. She named it Needle.” _All the best swords have names, you know._

Relieved, the woman smiles broadly.  “A young woman after my own heart.”

Sansa sadIy returns her smile. “Arya would have been most taken with you, Lady Brienne. She much would have preferred knighthood to the life of a highborn lady but we all thought it impossible.”

“It is not an easy life, I assure you, Lady Sansa, but it suits me just the same,” Brienne answers softly. “ I shall only require one more: what did Joffrey gift to you?”

“He gave me a necklace with a Lannister pendant. I still have it if you wish to see it.”

“No, my lady, that is not necessary. You word is enough.” Glaring toward Sandor, she asks, “You willing wed the Hound? Tell me truly: he did not attempt to coerce you in any manner?”

Sansa casts a confused glance at her husband, who smirks and jerks his head at Brienne. “Say what you mean, wench.” When Brienne remains silent, he snaps, “Sansa, what the _honorable_ wench really wants to know if I raped you or forced you to marry me as a condition of returning you to your kin.”

“Is that so?” Sansa gently questions Brienne, her eyes hardening at his words.

Averting her eyes, she quietly replies, “Yes, Lady Sansa. Pray forgive me; he is not the sort of man to whom most highborn woman willingly join themselves. However, I would not have posed the question in such crude terms as the Hound.”

“Rest assured I most certainly was not forced into marriage,” she moves closer to her husband and rests her hand on his arm. “I wed Sandor Clegane very willingly. I love him very much and will never consent to being parted from him.”

“I can see you have formed an attachment. Forgive me, but this is wholly unbelievable, based on what I have been told about the Hound.”

“Lady Brienne,  please, let us move you into the sept. Your wound may need stitches,” Elder brother says, kneeling beside Sansa. “Sandor, help me with her.”

Snarling, he shakes his head and points at her again. “Bugger that, holy man. Help her so she can take off my head when I lean down?”

Sansa squeezes his arm. “Dearest, please?”

“No way-you can just fucking well get that idea out of your head, Little bird,” he mutters, “She comes here calling me a rapist and a kidnapper and tells me she means to take you to Jaime _fucking_ Lannister? Bugger that, and bugger her, too. Let the good brothers help her.”

Sansa sighs. “I know it is all very hard to bear. Still-“

“Sandor, Sansa,  I propose that you allow me to tend to Lady Brienne while the two of you sort out matters and perhaps take your ease for a spell. Later, we all should sit down and have a talk,” Elder brother interjects, glancing between Sandor and Brienne.

“Aye that we should,” Sandor grunts, pulling Sansa closer to him.

“Say, before supper?”

 Sandor nods before casting another scowl at Brienne and grabbing Sansa by the arm. “Come on, Little bird.”

* * *

During the ride back to the Hermit’s Hole, Sandor silently fumes over the knight’s message. _How dare she ride in here at Jaime Lannister’s bidding-the very knight all the highborn ladies swooned over in court, buggering bastard! That wench has another thing coming if she thinks I’m going to stand by and let her take the Little bird to the kingslayer, gods be damned-I’ll kill them both before that fucking happens._

Outwardly the captain of the Kingsguard was everything the Little bird used to dream about in her fairy tales-a golden, handsome, charming knight, and before he lost his hand, deadly as well. _Sansa has grown into a beautiful woman since he last saw her, and if the kingslayer has grown tired of fucking his sister, he’s bound to notice. What if he charms her into agreeing to go with him?_

Though the men served alongside each other from their fifteenth namedays onward, Sandor could not bear the notion that Jaime Lannister had taken it upon himself to come to the aid of his little bird. The very idea sends bitter bile into his throat and recalls an  incident from Sandor’s past he would sooner forget.

The two first fought alongside each other in the campaign against the Kingswood Brotherhood during which both young men began building their respective reputations. The golden lion fast became a favorite among the soldiers and officers, first by saving Lord Crakehall from Big Belly Ben and later engaging the psychotic Smiling Knight in heated combat.

Sandor, on the other hand, was styled ruthless and fearsome, a young man to be avoided and derided, and it was then he first was called the Hound. Egged on by Gregor, all the knights mocked and scorned him, and by the time Jaime was knighted on the battlefield by Ser Arthur Dayne, his hatred for the appointment itself and those who took the vows was cemented within him.  From then on Sandor avoided Jaime at all costs and took out his anger on any opponent who crossed his path.

Upon their return to Casterly Rock a year later, Lord Tywin held a massive feast in Jaime’s honor, and the amiable young knight made a special invitation to his former comrade in arms. Ser Amory Lorch insisted he attend, that there was no way Sandor could refuse without causing insult, and so he grudgingly put on his best tunic and breeches and made an appearance.

 Determined to be miserable and drink as much as he was physically able for the duration, he spent the night sulking in the corner with his wine and watched as Jaime laughed and talked easily with soldiers and lords alike.

It did not escape his notice that Jaime’s beautiful twin Cersei stood in the shadows and glowered at her brother while all the serving women and highborn ladies vied for the young lion’s attention. Disgusted, Sandor was near ready to gather as many wineskins as he could carry and leave, until one pretty girl with dark chestnut hair looked him straight in the face, smiled and sidled up beside him.  

“Leaving so soon?” She laughed, pointing to his haul of Dornish sour. “I was hoping we could get to know each other better. I’m Willow, by the way.”

Looking back, he should have known then something was amiss; but a part of Sandor longed to believe that the striking young maid’s interest in him was sincere, and so he stayed. Something in her manner appealed to him, and so he listened as Willow talked his ear off about mundane things. She laughed easily at his attempts at humor, touching his arm with a twinkle in her eye, and before he knew it, the feast was over.

“Will you take me riding tomorrow, Sandor? We do not have a carriage in town and the weather is quite fine.” She batted her eyes at him and played with the neck of his tunic.

Willow was the first woman who ever took an interest in him without being paid, and though a part of him whispered that it was false, Sandor could not help himself. “Sure, I’ll get one for us,” he heard himself say, the words tumbling out all at once in his excitement.

“I look forward to it,” she smiled, and stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

After their ride the following day, they walked through the tall wildflowers beside the river. There she kissed him, his first real kiss, and he marveled that she neither cringed nor shied away from his burned appearance. Later, she laid him down in the grass and insisted he take her under the open sky; it was the closest thing to happiness Sandor experienced since his sister and mother died.

When he returned, the men all smiled knowingly and teased him mercilessly. Ser Barristan approached him and quietly asked, “Did you have a pleasant afternoon, Clegane?”

“Aye, I suppose, my lord,” he said, struggling to maintain his usual scowl.

“Good. Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

Once out of the earshot of the others, the knight cautiously related that Willow was no ordinary girl; in fact she was a high paid whore whom Lord Tywin hired as a reward for his service. Ser Barristan claimed Jaime knew nothing about it, and continued insisting on it for many years after, though Sandor never believed him. 

Humiliated and enraged, he angrily turned away from Ser Barristan, openly vowing he would never trust the word of any knight ever again before seeking out Jaime and blackening his eye in front of the men.

Looking back, Sandor is certain Lord Tywin would have had him killed on the spot if not for the pleading of the young knight, who inexplicably seemed to understand his anger. Many years later in a tavern after yet another battle, when his tongue was loosened by copious amounts of wine, Sandor asked Jaime why he did it.

The only response he got from the newly appointed captain of the Kingsguard was the curt phrase: “The whole bloody mess reminded me of my brother.” Jaime’s words caused Sandor a great deal of wonder over the years. Now, though, a blind fury settles over him at the memory, chasing all reasonable thought from his mind.

“When did _you_ ever speak to Jaime Lannister? I can’t bloody recall ever seeing you say two words to him,” Sandor venomously spits out, jostling Sansa in his arms.

Startled, Sansa sits up and turns her face up to him. “Forgive me, husband, I fell asleep. Would you please repeat yourself?”

Gripping her chin, he lowers his face close to hers. “You bloody well heard me; tell me when you spoke to Jaime fucking Lannister.”

Recoiling from the fury raging in his eyes, Sansa dares not look away. “I do not know; perhaps it was at the feast for King Robert in Winterfell. I cannot recall another occasion that I would have spoken to him.”

Snorting, he stares intently into her eyes, his steely gaze burning into her. “That the only time? You’re certain?”

“Yes, I believe so. I do not recall speaking to him on the Kingsroad or at the Hand’s tourney. Why do you ask?”

“Fuck, Sansa, I bloody well deserve to know when and how my wife managed to charm the thrice damned kingslayer into coming to her rescue!”

“Sandor, you are most upset. Please, let us get down and stretch for a bit,” Sansa calmly entreats the man. “We will speak of it then.”

“Bugger that. Anything you’ve got to say, you can say here and now!”

“Of course we can; but I wish to face you, so please, let us stop for a bit,” she rests her hand on his face.

“Aye, alright,” he moves her hand away and grumbles, pulling rein on Stranger. After tying the animal to a nearby tree, Sandor roughly lifts Sansa out of the saddle before settling down on a fallen log.

Smoothing down her skirts, Sansa moves toward him slowly and tentatively rests her hands on his shoulders. Jerking away, he sneers at her before casting his eyes downward.

“Look at me, please, my love,” she softly pleads with him.  After a moment, he raises his eyes to hers and shifts uneasily beneath her touch.

“If the man did not resemble Cersei half so much, I doubt I would even recognize Jaime Lannister if he rode up at this very moment. I know you feel the truth of my words, just as you know I never knowingly charmed him.” Settling down on his knee, Sansa timidly snakes her arms around his neck. “Please, tell me what this is really about, dearest.”

“Bloody hells, Sansa, just let it go.“ He mutters after a moment, running his hands through his hair with a sigh.

Tipping his chin up to her, Sansa kisses him softly.  “I will if you will, my love.”

Sneering, he sets her on her feet and stalks over to Stranger. The rest of the trip back to the Hermit’s Hole is spent in silence, with Sandor brooding and Sansa entreating the gods and her father for help.

Opening the door to the cave, Sandor turns to his wife. “You look tired-you want to nap for a bit?”

“Yes, I do,” she says hesitantly, stepping out of her gown and laying down among the furs. “I did not sleep well last night.

“Neither did I.” He raises his eyebrow at her. “But?”

She pats the bedding beside her. “But even though you are angry,  I wish to fall asleep in your arms.”

“Buggering hells,” he mutters, stripping off his garments and settling down next to her. “Come here, lass.”

* * *

Over supper, Lady Brienne relates all that happened with Renly Baratheon, Lady Catelyn, and Jaime in the Stormlands.

Sansa listens in rapt attention, while Sandor snorts in disbelief. “You failed to protect your liege lord and you’re blaming his death on some shadow beast a red witch conjured? Is that your idea of honor?”

“Sandor-“

“It’s alright, Lady Sansa. Ser Jaime told me you are a man who keeps no gods, Clegane, so I understand your difficulty in believing it. Had I not seen it with my own eyes I would not have believed it myself; nevertheless I speak the truth of the true nature of King Renly’s death.”

Sandor shakes his head. “Bloody nonsense.”

“Sandor, please, there is more you need to hear from her,” Elder brother says quietly. “Believe me, you _both_ will want to hear this.”

Reaching over, Sansa anxiously clutches his hand.

Sighing, he nods. “Aye, go on then.”

“My lady, one of your father’s former bannermen, Lord Beric Dondarrion  and his companion Thoros of Myr also worship the same red god as Lord Stannis’ red woman.”

“Beric Dondarrion? The hells you say; my brother killed him.”

“Sandor, please,” Elder brother patiently pats his arm. “Give Lady Brienne a chance.”

“Aye, alright. But what of Thoros? What the fuck is he doing here?”

“I am getting to that, Clegane,” Brienne mutters low, the woman’s patience sorely tried by the crude man before her. “They both lead a band of outlaws who call themselves the Brotherhood without Banners. They found your mother, after the incident at the Twins, in the river. It is reported that a massive wolf sat beside her, and the animal was whining and guarding her body.”

“Arya-she saw Mother through Nymeria!” Sansa sobs out, clinging to Sandor.

“Easy wife,” he whispers quietly. Burying his face in her crown, he recalls in his dream he saw Lady Catelyn in the river, and Arya was not far away from her when she spoke to him.

Brienne glances between them, and Elder brother nods at her to continue. “The men-they petitioned the red god to restore Lady Catelyn’s life in exchange for Lord Beric, and it is so, my lady-your Mother returned, but not as before. It is the same magic Thoros used to return Lord Beric after the Mountain killed him.”

“Tread lightly, wench,” Sandor growls as Sansa cries harder against his chest, the distraught woman pulling him closer still.

“It is most disturbing but it is true, Sandor; during his travels Septon Meribald has heard more than one man verify they have seen the former Lady Stark  in the company of this band.”

“I will hear no more of this! My lady mother would never join a band of outlaws!” Sansa indignantly cries out, suddenly pulling away from Sandor.

“You speak truly; your mother is not the woman I met in the Stormlands, my lady, neither in looks or disposition. She bears the marks of her death still, and even goes by another name now. Lady Stoneheart, she calls herself, though only Thoros and a few others can understand her. She is neither dead nor alive, but somewhere in between, and bent on avenging her family. I am very sorry.”

“No! How could this happen?” Sansa cries out, slamming her fist on the table.

Sandor encircles her in his arms. “Why come here and tell us all this?”

“Ser Jaime respected Lady Catelyn, for she even went against your brother’s wishes to secure you and your sister’s return and released him at great risk to herself; the northern lords thought her a traitor. In so doing, Lady Catelyn saved his life, and he means to honor your mother’s actions on his behalf. Ser Jaime is determined to keep you safe from the queen regent and find your sister as well.”

Kneeling, she draws Oathkeeper from its scabbard and offers it to Sansa, who shakily looks toward Sandor.

“What’s this now?”

“As a sign of good faith, he has given me the longsword Oathkeeper which has been forged from Lord Eddard’s greatsword Ice. It is fitting that your father’s blade be used to protect his daughters, and I have vowed to do just that, my lady.”

“Ice,” Sansa whispers, reverently running her fingers across the glittering ripples through the red and black blade. Stepping back, she turns to Sandor. “Take my father’s sword from Lady Brienne.”

Snarling, Sandor snatches it from the knight’s hands. “So the kingslayer found honor, did he? Next you’ll tell me he stopped fucking his sister. So he returned my wife’s rightful property to her-that sure as hells doesn’t mean shit to me.”

“Ser Jaime feared you would respond in such a manner. He is travelling here as we speak to voice his intentions in person. He also has heard of this rapist band as well, and has identified them as sellswords sent by Lord Baelish to retrieve Sansa for himself.”

Roaring in a fury, Sandor brings the longsword crashing down onto the table, shattering the weirwood.  Lady Brienne jumps back and pushes Podrick behind her while resting her hand on the hilt of her short sword. Though she is a battle hardened knight, the unadulterated rage pouring off the Hound  nevertheless startles her. Warily she circles around him. “Clegane, calm yourself!”

“Littlefucker is behind this? I should have slit his throat in King’s Landing!” Sandor seethes, looking more demon than human to his onlookers.

Trembling, Sansa quietly sobs into Elder brother’s shoulder. “Sandor, please, your wife-“

Rushing to her side, Sandor gathers Sansa in his arms, the anger instantly draining from his countenance as he tenderly strokes her back. “Shh it’s alright, Little bird. No one will hurt you again, or I’ll kill them. I swear it on my life. You’re safe with me. Say you believe me, lass.”

“I do, I believe you,” the young woman stutters out.

Her husband takes out a handkerchief and gently dries her cheeks. “That’s better,” Sandor rasps softly, caressing her face.

Stunned by his transformation, Lady Brienne draws a deep sigh of relief and settles back into her chair. “Ser Jaime will be here in a few days. In the meantime, I believe it would be best to keep Lady Sansa hidden and prepare the septry from a possible attack.”

Gritting his teeth, Sandor nods his assent. “Aye, we’ll do just that.”

Elder brother makes the sign of the Seven over Sandor, Sansa and Lady Brienne. “Do what you must, and may the Seven bless and keep us all.”


	49. Sansa Learns the Purpose of Her Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small smile curls onto Arya's lips. “I am not certain to what extent this will manifest itself, Sansa, but after what happened with Gregor, Father and I believe you can warg with Sandor and possibly him with you.”

Captain Manderly meets up with Jaime shortly after he enters the stables. “I’ve been all over for you, Ser Jaime. We got word from the woman knight that you would be coming to us. We rode out this morning to meet you.”

“Her name is Brienne," Jaime replies, sharply turning to the man. "Brienne, the maid of Tarth. Captain-and I use the term loosely- believe you meant to say: “Ser Jaime, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, we loyally received your personal envoy, _Lady Brienne of Tarth,_ and immediately responded to her message.”

Taken aback, Captain Manderly amends his statement. “Yes, my lord, we received your message from your personal envoy, Lady Brienne of Tarth, and immediately set out to meet you.”

Jaime condescendingly appraises the man. “That’s better, Manderly. There may be hope for you yet. Leave me to my business, if that is all.”

“My lord, I would only inquire if you have any news of the Hound. I wish to sufficiently prepare my men.”

Nonchalantly, Jaime shakes his head. “None as of yet. I am requisitioning you and your company to conduct me to the Quiet Isle as soon as I purchase a suitable mount. I have reason to believe the criminal wearing the helm of the Hound and his band will attack the septry. I expect you have spare Lannister tack on hand?”

“Certainly, Ser Jaime,” Captain Manderly bows. “We serve at your pleasure, just as we served your father, Lord Tywin, the Seven rest his soul.”

 _“Tyrion is Tywin's son, not you. I said so once to your father's face, and he would not speak to me for half a year,”_ Jaime’s aunt Genna once told him. _I may not be like Father but I most certainly have the ability to sound like him when need be._

“See that you do.” Jaime’s mouth pulls taut, recalling his father’s words. _“I need you to become a man you're always meant to be. Not next year, not tomorrow... now.”_

“I will have it ready for your arrival.” Shaken, the captain uneasily bows once more. “Pray excuse me while I go prepare the men.”

Jaime waves the man away, his heart suddenly weighing heavily in his chest. _I will become that man, Father, but not to destroy Catelyn Stark. I was meant to save her daughters and right the wrongs of my son and sister._

After spending the better part of an hour carefully scrutinizing each of Maddox’s offerings, Jaime settles on an enormous grey and white destrier. The animal’s keen eyes followed him from the moment he entered the paddock, and he immediately knew that was the horse he wanted to buy, and only looked over the other animals so as to throw off the stable owner’s price.

 _The beast looks as though it would kill me just as soon as look at me._ _Just like the man’s eyes I am riding to meet_ , Jaime thinks with a snort, wondering if the Hound is still as mean as the horse he rode into Winterfell.

“You just bought the finest animal I’ve had since the Hound raided the town, Ser Jaime. Where you headed?”  Maddox asks, handing Jaime the reins.

“The Quiet Isle. I would have preferred a palfrey but this is a fine animal,” Jaime smiles genially, offering the wary animal small pieces of apple as he pats its flank. “I didn’t expect to find such among the ruins here. I answered your question and now I have one for you in return: he’s clearly a trained warhorse. I’m curious: how did you come into possession of such a creature?”

The stable owner squints at Jaime and hastily steps forward as Captain Manderly appears. Jaime grips the hilt of his sword and motions two Lannister soldiers into the holding pen. “Answer me.”

“Lots of animals wander loose in these parts. I go out two, maybe three times a week and round up the best ones. Fact is your father has kept me in business for many months with this bloody war.”

 _It figures the only man with a decent mount for sale is a war profiteer._ Narrowing his eyes, Jaime glares at the greasy man. “If the Lannisters have, in fact, financed this enterprise as you say, then this one should be on the house, wouldn’t you agree?” When the man doesn’t answer, he adds, “Do you even bother with the bodies of the men who rode them?”

Shrugging, Maddox spits on the ground. “Naw, why would I? The scavengers got to eat, too, and there’s not much left by the time I show up.”

Captain Manderly raises his fist to strike Maddox but Jaime takes hold of his arm and shakes his head. “Tell me, did you happen to see anyone of particular note ride into town prior to the raid?”

Scratching his beard, the man slowly nods. “Aye, after the first of the moon. A unusually large person wearing the brown dun robes of the Seven came in for supplies, as is their usual custom.”

“So, aside from his size, was there anything else noteworthy about the man?”

“His squire, ha!” Maddox licks his lips. “Not a squire at all, but a beautiful girl. Doubt I’ve ever seen one half so pretty. Most unusual. Lucky for him half the men around here were too daft to see past her squire duds, buggering fools. They wanted that one all the same, though, and followed them out of town.”

 _So, Clegane was here, and he has Sansa with him._ _At least now I know she is safe from Littlefinger and his sellswords._ Drawing in a sharp breath, Jaime whips around to face Captain Manderly. “Did you know about this?”

“No, not when it happened. My men found the bodies of three Lannister soldiers in the woods sometime later with wagon tracks leading toward the Quiet Isle,” he frowns.

 _Sounds about right_ , Jaime bit back a smile. After a moment he tersely asked, “What happened?”

“We went there in search of the one responsible but I saw no such person among the brothers. However-”

“Many thanks for your help, Maddox,” Jaime interrupts, handing the man a pouch of coin.

“Ser, but you already paid-“

“A Lannister always pays his debts,” he glances toward the soldiers. “They also expect confidential talk to be kept private, understood? Or the Hound will be the least of your worries, I promise you.”

Captain Manderly dips his head as Jaime approaches.  “The men saddled your mount, my lord. We are ready to leave at your leisure.”

“Beg pardons milord, beg pardons!” A small nervous man with a thin mustache calls after them.

Jaime rolls his eyes, realizing the man saw him give Maddox the pouch. “What is it? Spit it out and be gone. I have important business to attend.”

“Ser, me brother and I came from the Quiet Isle,” he bawls. “We was lookin’ for work and food and the good brothers helped us. We saw the Hound and his men riding toward the septry, fast as can be.”

“Mount up men and make haste,” Jaime shouts, swinging his body into the saddle. “The septry could fall under attack by nightfall.”

* * *

While Sandor, Brienne and the brothers fortify the septry, Sansa watches nearby while resting on a log. Lady Brienne is a fascination to her, for she has never seen such a woman. Not only is the lady knight only a few inches shorter than her husband but she most capably sparred against him and easily manages to match Sandor’s work pace, something many men in King’s Landing had been unable to accomplish.  Exhausted and overwrought, Sansa leans back against the wall and rubs her head. From the lichyard, Sandor looks up with a frown and hastily walks toward her.

“What is it, Little bird? Are you ill?”

“I am merely tired,” she sighs with a small smile, cupping his cheek. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Brienne regarding them curiously.

Sandor places the back of his hand on her forehead. “You’re flushed. I’m taking you back to the Hermit’s Hole.”

“No, that is not necessary. I will go to our cabin.”

Sandor sets his jaw, his eyes glittering. “Aye, as long as I’m working outside.”

Leaning forward, Sansa kisses him tenderly, the young woman giggling when her open display of affection brings a flush of red to his cheek.

“Bloody hells, woman,” he mutters, leading her inside the cabin. “Get some rest, wife,” he whispers against her forehead, tucking her into the furs. “I’ll be back when I’m finished.”

* * *

_“Sissy, can you hear me? Sansa, hear me!” Arya’s voice calls to her. Though it is no longer the childish voice she remembers, Sansa innately recognizes it is her sister._

_“Arya, where are you?”_

_“I’m with Jaqen, Sansa. I’m learning how to protect myself so I can help get Winterfell back. I can speak with you in your dreams.”_

_“Sandor saw you in his dream by the River with Mother-he said he spoke to you. How is this possible?”_

_“I saw him too,” Arya replies sorrowfully. “Father helps me. He first showed me when Gregor came for you. He led me to you and Sandor. Jaqen helped me understand that I could kill him through Nymeria.”_

_“Dearest, I will never be able to thank you for all you have done for us,” Sansa cries out. “I have missed you so.”_

_“And I you, sister.”_

_“Why have you come, Arya?”_

_“I guess Sandor told you I saw Mother through Nymeria when the Freys left her by the river.”_

_“Yes, he did. He told me that you told him to comfort me, as your friend Jaqen helped you.”_

_“Yes.” Arya sighs heavily. “Do you remember Maester Luwin speak of warging?_

_“Yes!” Sansa answers excitedly. “He thought Bran had the gift.”_

_“It is not just Bran, Sansa. We all have it-you, me, Jon, and Rickon, too.”_

_“Forgive me but I do not believe that I do, Arya,” Sansa sadly admits. “If I did, I lost it when Lady died, for a part of me died with her.”_

_“I know, Sissy, I felt it,” Arya pauses. “You remember when fat old King Robert told Father to get you a dog, you’d be happier for it?”_

_“Yes, that was right after he ordered Lady killed. It was cruel.”_

_“It was. I wanted to stick him with Needle for saying such. Well, for once he was right, though he was too stupid to know what he was saying. As a Stark, you can see through any animal’s eyes that is akin to the wolf, Sansa-even a dog.”_

_A dog? A Hound?  Sansa’s heart races through the many instances she sensed Sandor’s emotions. Each time it happens it is a shared experience, of that she is certain, but is she really able to warg into him?_

_“You cannot mean the Hound? Sandor?” Sansa gasps even as the truth of Arya’s words ring in her mind and heart._

_“Sandor is yours. Father gave you a dog just as Robert said. The Clegane sigil is three hounds. Dogs are brothers to the wolf. Father saw that the Hound cared for you after he died and he knew Robb and Mother may never make it to King’s Landing. In order to keep you safe, he bonded you and Sandor together there.”_

_It is true he seemed to always be around after Joffrey killed her Father; still Sansa shakes her head in disbelief. “Then why was he always saying mean things? Why did he scare me?”_

_“Because he’s the Hound. He killed Mycah; he didn’t know how to act like a normal person, Sansa. Remember what Littlefinger said about him and his brother?”_

_“Yes of course.”_

_“Well Sandor’s whole childhood was messed up, Father learned all about it from Robert. He never had love growing up like we did and he didn’t even know how to talk to you. It got better over time, right?”_

_“Yes, although we have had our share of difficulties.”_

_“The Hound tried to drink it away, fight it away and screw it away but it didn’t work.”_

_“Arya, please don’t use such words about my husband.”_

_Arya laughs. “Always the proper lady, Sansa. Since I left King’s Landing I’ve lived around men. Septa Mordane would faint.”_

_Laughing, Sansa nods. “Why did Father not tell me this himself?”_

_“Because you were thinking of me, silly,” Arya smirks at her. More seriously, she continues, “You need not fear, Sansa. Lady is with Father and she watches over you with him.”_

_“Truly?” Sansa sobs out._

_”Yes, truly,” Arya answers, a small smile curling on her lips. “I am not certain to what extent this will manifest itself, Sansa, but after what happened with Gregor, Father and I believe you can warg with Sandor and possibly him with you.”_

_Sansa has only heard of people warging into animals, not each other. The prospect both frightens and thrills her. “Is such a thing even possible?”_

_“Bran warged into Hodor, but it scared him badly.”_

_“Yes, I imagine it would,” Sansa whispers, discernment and fear mingling within her._

_“I know it is hard to believe, but the same thing has happened to Nymeria and me. Though we are apart, she is no longer alone. She made her own pack among the wolves of the Riverlands. I made a new pack with Hot Pie and Gendry and Jaqen. He taught me to open my eyes and allow myself to see through her. You made a new pack with Sandor.”_

_“I am happy for you, sister,” Sansa replies, overwhelmed with emotion. “I do not know what to do, though. I have no one to teach me as you did.”_

_“Jaqen only encouraged me to focus, relax and allow it in. I’ll help you. The Hound is a dog no longer. Father has made him part of our pack and that is why he speaks to him in his dreams._ _You can see through your own wolf, Sansa.”_

_“Arya, please help me,” she implores. “Tell me tell me what I need to do.”_

_“Trust him, believe in his strength and ability to keep you safe, and you will be able to see through Sandor’s eyes. You will share your strengths and join together as one. He is as devoted to you as Nymeria is to me; he will be unstoppable with your love guiding him. You are stronger together.”_

Abruptly Sansa awakens to Sandor breaking through the door, trampling over the splintered pieces in his wake and rushing to her side.  Lady Brienne storms in hot on his heels and begins searching the room with her sword drawn. “We heard your voice, Sansa,” he explains, gathering her in his arms. Sansa sobs into his neck and pulls him closer still. “I felt you were afraid.”

Satisfied Sansa is safe and alone, Lady Brienne slowly backs out of the cabin and closes the broken door.

“Little bird, talk to me. We heard you crying and speaking to someone. Who the fuck was here and what did they do to you?” Sandor’s eyes are wild with fear and anger. _Just like Shaggydog looks when Rickon is afraid,_ Sansa thinks briefly before answering. “It was Arya-she came to me in a dream.”

Sandor lets out a deep breath and clutches her against his chest. “You are going to be too damned afraid to ever fall asleep again at this rate. What did the wolf bitch want?”

Sansa notices Sandor’s dark hair is covered with white flakes of ice. She pulls her hand away from his shoulders and rubs her fingers together, puzzled. “What is this in your hair and on your robe? Is it _snow_?”

“Aye it began to flurry not long after I brought you back to the cabin. Who ever heard of snow this far south?” Sandor shakes his head. “I don’t know what in Seven hells your Father is up to but I’ve had enough of this crazy shit for one day. So?”

Weakly she nods, not sure where to begin.

“Tell me, wife. I’ll believe you,” he says seriously, meeting her eyes. “What did you sister say?”

“She told me Father saw you had no love for Joffrey and learned of your affection for me. He knew you of your devotion long before we escaped. Father made the bond between us in King’s Landing, so we would be connected in such a way that you would be moved to protect me, and I in turn would long to comfort and give you the love that was sorely missing from your life.”

Sansa takes his hands in hers, staring into his eyes. Swallowing hard, he glances down and stares at their entwined fingers.  “Did he now?”

“Yes, Arya said Father made you part of our pack,” Sansa eagerly continues, encouraged by his lack of skepticism.  “Lady is with Father now. He knew Robb and Mother were fighting the war and would not be able to come to me and so Father made the bond with you to keep me safe.”

Gritting his teeth, Sandor runs his hands through his hair. “Fuck, Sansa, I-I don’t know what to say. I know I was drawn to you after your Father died, so much so that it troubled me greatly.”

The thundering of hooves and men shouting snap the couple out of their thoughts.

Lady Brienne and Elder brother run burst into the cabin. “Sandor, come quick! The septry is under attack! One of them is wearing your helm.”

“Fucking bloody bastards!” Sandor shouts, instinctively pulling Sansa against him.

Elder brother draws a longsword from under his robes. “Go with Lady Brienne, Sandor. I will get Sansa to safety.”

“No, I won’t leave her,” he growls viciously. “I can’t, damn it! I knew you should have gone to the Hermit’s Hole, thrice damned fucking hells!”

“Sandor, you must,” the Little bird pleads while disentangling herself from his grip. “You know the sept doesn’t stand a chance without you! You and Lady Brienne are the only two who have enough fighting skill to stop them!” Sansa pushes him toward the door. “Please, my love, go at once!”

Torn between leading the fight and protecting her, Sandor runs his hand down his face and swears under his breath. “Alright,” he reluctantly agrees, gripping Elder brother by the front of his robes. “You’d better keep her safe, or you’ll pray to be in the Seven hells before I’m through.”

“Sandor, enough!” Sansa shouts, surprising the man. “Go!”

“I’ll keep her safe, Sandor. You have my word!” Elder brother places his hand on his arm. “May the Seven bless and keep you both.”

Elder McCann appears in the doorway. “Elder brother, we cannot make for the Hermit’s Hole, the outlaws have cut off our escape. We must get Lady Sansa to the basement now!”

“Go then, take Lady Sansa to safety at once! The Hound and I will handle these outlaws,” Brienne calls, dragging Sandor outside. “Save your anger for the battle, Clegane!”

“I’ve got more than enough stored, wench!” He roars, quickly gutting the first man who challenges him. “I’ll hold them off, Elder brother. Go on men!”

The bond with Sansa fuels his rage to a level he has never before experienced. Blinded by fury, Sandor also senses a peculiar clarity, a mental and physical sharpness that allows the sword to serve as an extension of the man. Fluidly he slices through the enemy with speed and precision, the man singularly determined to keep Sansa safe.

Lady Brienne and Elder brother watch in horrified disbelief as the Hound mercilessly cuts a swath through the sellswords, killing every man in his path with frightening ferocity. Soon many of the men retreat from Sandor in fear, running out into the water in their haste to escape his bloody onslaught.

Laughing maniacally under the helm of the Hound, Rorge takes several men from the main raiding party and follows Elder brother and Elder McCann as they drag Sansa into the rear entry of the basement. The other brothers are already assembled and praying to the Warrior to protect them. The men quickly latch the door behind them in the small, dank sanctum.

Settling down with his prayer wheel, Elder brother kneels and indicates for her to join him in prayer. “Sansa, please, focus, my lady. You must have faith that the Warrior will protect Sandor.”

“You don’t understand,” she cries out, tears streaking her cheeks. “My Father-he has bonded us from the afterlife! It is the same bond the Starks have with their direwolves, only mine was killed and so Father made mine with Sandor!”

Sansa can hardly get the words out, her breaths coming in short gasps. “I can feel his rage, the fury, his fear-all of it, Elder brother. He needs me! I must go to him!”

Elder brother takes her hands in his. “Easy, lass. Calm yourself,” he dabs her cheeks with a handkerchief. “What do you mean by bonded, child? Tell me.”

“The Stark line goes back to the First Men. My ancestors were the Kings of Winter and gifted by the old gods with a mystical bonding-“

Her words are interrupted by the men kicking in the door. Elder McCann carries Sansa deeper into the basement as Elder brother kills the first man that raises his weapon. “You are violating the holy sanctuary of the Seven. The Warrior bids me to end this sacrilege.”

The howling of wolves fills the air. “Never have I heard so many wolves, not even in the north. The pack must be a hundred strong, Elder brother, and drawing closer,” Sansa says quietly, her voice shaking in fear. Elder McCann whispers to her, “Your sigil has come to your aid, Lady Sansa.”

Rorge ducks his head into the sanctum. “I’ve been looking for you, wolf bitch. Lord Baelish sends his regards,” he cackles at her. “After I kill this old man, you and old Rorge are gonna to have some fun.”

 _“Nymeria and I are here with you, Sansa,”_ Arya’s words whisper in her ear. “ _Trust Sandor. Call to him in your mind. Take a deep breath and allow yourself to see through his eyes. He will save you.”_

Glaring, Sansa steps closer to Rorge while focusing on Sandor’s emotions. “You will not hurt me or anyone else,” she says quietly, ignoring the shocked stares of the men around her. “The gods will not allow it.” Rage, bloodlust, and fear course through her blood. _Come to me, love. I know you feel my fear. Help me. We are stronger together._

“That so?” Rorge snarls with a laugh Closing her eyes, she drowns out the man’s curses and taunts and struggles to calm herself. White gleaming light blinds her momentarily; Sansa draws in a deep breath, stilling her fear. _Sandor, hear me._

Soon Sansa opens her eyes and see the outside of the septry basement once more. Wolves are swarming around the entryway, dragging the screaming men into the woods and feasting on their flesh. _Closer, closer…Sandor, come to me,_ she repeats in her mind.

Rorge yanks her by the arm and drags her to the doorway, cursing at the top of his voice. “What’s the matter, damn you? The Hound got your tongue?”

“What’s wrong with her eyes?” Rorge barks out at Elder brother when Sansa does not reply.

Distracted, the holy man steps aside, staring at Sansa in awe. “You are about to find out, I am afraid,” the holy man whispers, backing away from him and laying down his sword.

“Smart of you to give up. Lord Baelish never said she was damaged and he won’t pay for her in this shape. She looks to be blind, I-“ Rorge’s words devolve into a muffled scream.

Sansa flickers her eyes near the sound of Rorge’s voice and yet her concentration does not waver. Sandor’s presence envelopes her, the fear within her vanishing just as quickly as it came. “You are not the Hound,” she shouts over his high pitched screech.

With a bloodcurdling roar, the sellsword’s screams are cut off by the vicious downward stroke of Sandor’s greatsword. The force nearly severs Rorge’s body in two, abruptly ending his reign of terror as the remains of the fearsome man sprawl to the floor at Sansa’s feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to join up Sandor, Sansa, Jaime and Brienne in this chapter but the muse went another way, sorry :/


	50. Story Update

Hi everyone,

I just wanted to keep you updated about my stories. I've been pretty sick and ended up in the hospital over the weekend and so I haven't been writing lately. I don't expect to update my fics until the middle of next week, sorry about that :( 

<3 Littlefeather


	51. Comrads in Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those men are supposed to believe in the gods, old and new; it’s what they spout from the pulpit every week. Of all people, this should come as no surprise to them, buggering fools. Yet Sandor cannot deny that it is entirely another matter to have experienced their work first hand as opposed to reading about it in an ancient scroll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features canon typical violence, though less graphic than what transpires in AFFC.

“Podrick," Brienne calls out as the men rode hard toward the sept, "you'll want a sword and armor. Go now.”

"What are you talking about?" The boy moves beside her and unsheaths his shortsword. “I don’t have any armor.”

“Take a shield off the first man I kill,” she explains, gesturing toward the riders before ducking behind a large headstone. “Do it.”

 _Seven men_ , Brienne despairingly counts the mounted horses. She has no chance against seven, she knows. No chance and no choice but to do what she can to buy Clegane time to get his wife to safety.

As the first rider barrels past, she steps out from behind the headstone, slashing Oathkeeper low, bringing the blade hard across the horse’s hocks. Shrieking in pain, the animal rears, instantly throwing its rider and immediately Brienne runs the man through. “Here, Pod, take it.” She hastily cuts through the straps of the fallen man’s breastplate. “Get this on. We have to help the Hound fight off these men!”

“Yes, milady,” he nods, following close behind her and shrugging on the armor.

Another rider whirl around to face her, shouting, “Raise that weapon at me, boy, and I’ll run you through.”  Lightning over the Bay of Crabs lit up the sky as the riders leap off their horses. The man wearing the Hound’s helm bears an axe which gleam silvery blue in the moonlight.

“His helm," Brienne’s mouth goes dry with fear. Given the information from Jaime’s raven, she has a pretty good idea who wears the Hound's helm,  “Sansa and the brothers-we must give them a change to hide. Hold these men, Podrick, do not let them past you, do you understand?”

“Yes, milady.”

“To me,” she shouts, positioning herself in a defensive stance while Podrick heeds her call and moves to guard her back.

“Should we strike first?” The boy asks warily.

Silently Brienne entreats the Warrior. Old Ser Goodwin was long in his grave, yet Brienne could hear him whispering in her ear. _Men will always underestimate you, he said, and their pride will make them want to vanquish you quickly, lest it be said that a woman tried them sorely. Let them spend their strength in furious attacks, whilst you conserve your own. Wait and watch, girl, wait and watch._

“No,” she shakes her head firmly. “Let them come to us. Do as I do and we’ll both prevail, understand?”

”Yes, milady.” The boy is shaking, she notices, but remains firmly planted by her side. _Brave boy._

The man wearing Sandor’s helm turns to face her, laughing. “I don’t have time to mess with you, man. Get out of my way or else get run through, one.”

“I’m no man,” Brienne shouts out, lowering her helm. “Just come to me and we’ll see who gets run through.

”Seven Hells, it’s Renly’s wench!” He cackles. “You’re even uglier than I remember.”

“I could say the same for you. I know you, Rorge, and you are no Clegane, no matter the helm. I have come to bring you to justice.”

Brienne means to provoke him and it works. “Fuck you, whore!" He growls out. "Freak! Bitch!” Something catches his eye, and whirling his horse around,  Rorge heads toward the back of the septry. “I’ll deal with you later, the both of you. Right now I’m hunting for a northern wolf bitch.”

Three of his men stay behind. _Better odds,_ she thinks grimly, her stomach sinking as she spies the Biter barreling toward her, hissing.

Crashing into her, the huge man lifts her off her feet and slams her into the ground. Her first thought is her sword hand, now empty. Oathkeeper is gone, torn from her grasp. Podrick steps into the fight while the third man laughs maniacally, sitting on a stump to watch.

 _My dagger!_ Brienne desperately claws her way between their bodies to the hilt of her weapon, wrapping her hand around the handle in a death grip. The Biter locks both his hands around her neck, choking her as she struggles to free the katar. The lightning flashes again, allowing Brienne a glimpse of Podrick running the man through with his sword before quickly turning toward the other man.

* * *

“Bloody hells, Sansa,” Sandor breathes out, pulling her close to him. The color has returned to her cheeks and her eyes are now clear and bright. _What the fuck happened to her?_ Whatever it was, he is relieved to see she appears unharmed; in fact, she is much improved from her earlier distress. After careful scrutiny, he lets go of the breath he did not know he was holding, relieved to find Sansa unhurt. “Did they harm you?”

“No,” Sansa nervously takes in the gawking stares of the brothers assembled. Sullenly Sandor casts a withering scowl at them and the men quickly turn away, murmuring quietly amongst themselves.

An arbitrary indignation simmers within him as he regards the holy men. Sandor recognizes fear of the unknown in their eyes: fear of Sansa, it would seem, and the gift the gods have bestowed upon the Starks. He recalls all too clearly that Robert had the same look when Ned told him of Daenerys Targaryen’s marriage.

 _Those men are supposed to believe in the gods, old and new; it’s what they spout from the pulpit every week. Of all people, this should come as no surprise to them, buggering fools_. Yet Sandor cannot deny that it is entirely another matter to have experienced their work first hand as opposed to reading about it in an ancient scroll.

The connection with Sansa took on a singularly intimate characteristic far deeper than he previously experienced, almost as though she somehow crossed into his body, controlling his actions and bending him to her will. The pull was stronger than anything he has ever known, and he had been powerless to resist her.

Sansa’s freedom to make her own decisions has always been of prime importance to him. Yet she did not return the favor, and in a moment of distress she easily took control of him without any regard for the unspoken boundaries between them, bonded though they are.

Sandor deeply resents discovering the vulnerability their connection has produced in him, though he does not wish to discuss it in front of the men. Staring at her in amazement, he rasps low, “What was that? What happened?”

“I-I did what Arya suggested. She knew how afraid I was, and she told me to-to-“

“Well, spit it out, damn it! What did she say?” He snarls, unable to contain himself. “You hesitate to put it to words but you sure as hell didn’t hesitate to do it! Don’t pretend it was the same as what came before.” Sandor wipes his hand over his face and shakes his head, struggling to calm himself. “I felt something, Sansa, from you. You-you ought not to have done it. No without-”

“Sandor, I am so sorry, I was frightened-the men barged in here and I did not know how else to reach you,” Sansa interjects, grasping his hand in her own. “Please, try to understand, I was desperate for you to hear me. I did not mean to infringe upon you in any way.“

“I sensed your fear, Little bird. Fuck, couldn’t you feel how bloody angry I was?” He leans in, grabbing her arm. “When you did _that_ -I was already on my way to you. You needn’t have taken me in that manner.“

“Lady Sansa, Sandor,” Elder brother interrupts, further angering Sandor. “Are you both quite alright?”

“Stay out of this, holy man,” he growls, unable to tear his eyes away from his wife. “Would you tell me just what the fuck happened? How did you do that?”

“The bonding, it somehow summoned the wolves to our aid,” Sansa shakes her head, avoiding Elder brother’s eyes. “I believe it is similar to what happened with Gregor. Arya helped me understand it is part of our, um, abilities. I cannot explain it.”

“That’s _not_ what happened with Gregor! And that’s not I fucking meant, and you know it.” Gripping his sword, the burned side of Sandor’s face twitches sharply. “What do have to say for yourself?”

Abashed, Sansa lowers her eyes. “Do not look at me in such a way,” she says softly, the steely tone sharpening her quiet words.

“And what way is that?”

“Like I am-“

“Like you are-what?”

“Like I am a monster,” Sansa anxiously fidgets with the edge of her cloak. ”You of all people know how distasteful it is.”

Sighing, he tilts her chin up to him, the fight suddenly leaving him. “You’re no monster, Little bird but seven bloody hells, you can’t just go around doing whatever the fuck that was anytime the mood strikes you! I’ll not have it.”

“Forgive me. I know such a thing is unpleasant,” Sansa rests her hand on his cheek. “Maester Luwin taught us that much.  I felt I had no choice. Though I am sorry for the manner in which it happened, Sandor, I do not regret reaching out to you in such a way in a time of distress. I believe that is the purpose of the bond.”

Elder McCann approaches the pair. “Ser Clegane, please, hear me out. I know this is all very unsettling, especially to a Westerman. If you’ll allow it, I believe I can help the two of you understand what happened.”

“I’m no Ser, gods damn it!” Sandor abruptly spits out at the man. “And I’ve had all I’m going to take of you men butting in between me and my wife.”

“Sandor, please-“

“Enough Sansa! Enough!” Turning to face Elder McCann, Sandor leans in close, sneering at him. “And just what would you know about this whole bloody mess? You worship the Seven. This bonding business is the providence of the old gods.”

“I am from the north,” the young septon stammers. “In the highlands below Winterfell I was born and raised.

Sandor raises his eyebrow. "Go on."

"I grew up hearing stories about the Starks and their bond to the wolves from boyhood; all northerners are raised on it. We know the Stark bonding is as certain as winter is coming.”

“Please, Sandor, let him help us.”

Gritting his teeth, Sandor turns loose of Sansa, who levelly returns his gaze. ”Aye we’ll do that.”  

Elder Brother glances between them. “We must see about Lady Brienne and Podrick.”

“And you and I will have our talk, you best believe,” he mutters to her as he leads Sansa by the arm toward the door.

“Sandor, do not be angry with me, I thought you understood about this-“

“Hush,” he clamps his hand over her mouth. Outside the clashing of steel fills the lichyard. “I hear a woman shouting.”

“Lady Brienne!” Sansa calls, pointing toward two figures circling in the moonlight, the smooth metal Hound’s helm glinting ominously.

“Mother have mercy-it is the man I saw in the dream. I had nightmares about the hound’s helm, and its fangs were dripping fresh blood. I also saw a lion-”

“Just the bastard I’ve wanted to meet,” he roars out a mirthless laugh while unsheathing both swords.

“No, that was the one you killed already. I am certain of it.”

“A common buggering coward, nevertheless; no lion about him. I best help her with that one.”

“Go Sandor, help her.”

“Elder brother, take Sansa back to the cabin and stay with her, will you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“The wolves are returning to the forest,” she comments absently, watching the animals retreat into the brush. “Perhaps the worst is over.”

"Aye," Sandor agrees, wiping down his blade. Studying Brienne's moves, he hurriedly runs his whetstone down each side of the blade of his greatsword.

Nymeria lopes toward them, snarling and biting sharply toward the Elder brother as she approaches Sansa.

“No, Nymeria, no! He is a friend.” Turning to him, she nods reassuringly. “Stay where you are.” When she settles down next to Sansa’s side, she adds, “Now slowly hold out your hand to her so she can smell you.”

The enormous direwolf flattens her ears against her head, her yellow eyes gleaming in the torchlight as she draws near.

“I am not certain it is wise, my lady, ” the man weakly finds his voice.

“I know she is very intimidating. Just try to remain calm and  she will come to you.”

Cautiously Nymeria creeps on her belly toward him, ducking her head at the slightest movement until her wet nose nuzzles his hand. After sniffing Elder Brother thoroughly, she lies down at Sansa’s feet with a huff, resting her head on her paws.

“Good girl,” Sansa purrs at her, stroking her immense head. “See, she can sense you are a friend.”

“So it seems,” the holy man marvels, allowing himself a small smile.

“Sansa, get back to the fucking cabin,” Sandor growls. "Now."

“Please, come with me now,” Elder brother takes her arm. “Sandor will not be at ease until he knows you are safe, though I daresay you could hardly be safer than with this fearsome creature standing watch over you. The gods have truly blessed you.”

”Sometimes it is hard to see it in such a way,” Sansa admits, glancing at her husband sadly. “Let us go. Sandor, I know you are angry but please, do not leave me this way.”

Turning away, Sandor ignores her. His thoughts and words will keep until they can talk in private; he cannot risk muddleing his mind with the swell of emotions overtaking her and is unsure how to sort her feeling from his own while they are both distressed. For now, he chooses to focus solely on the battle, and unsheathing his swords once more, Sandor readies his shield and runs toward the fight.

* * *

Biter hisses against Brienne's ear, his meaty hands squeezing the air from her throat. _You must stay conscious! You cannot die! Slash him!_   Struggling to clear her head, she musters all her strength and wrenches free, gasping for air. There is shouting all about her, and in between the claps of thunder, the clash of steel on steel rings out in the still night.

 _Thank the gods! Clegane has joined the fight_. She could only hope he reached Sansa before Rorge did. Beside them, the third man collapses to the ground, his eyes wide. _He’s surprised that the boy managed to kill him_ , she thinks with a grim sense of satisfaction. _Podrick’s training is being put to good use._

Above her the Biter's mouth gapes open, his teeth, yellow and crooked, filed into points. Brienne struggles to turn away her face, and yet she is unable to move far enough. Crying out, she feels his mouth against her cheek, clamping down. _I cannot die yet. There is something I still need to do._

She hears a deep rasping voice shouting curses somewhere in the distance but Brienne does not allow herself to believe it is Clegane coming to her aid. Distracted, the Biter turns toward the voice, providing her with just enough room to free her dagger. With a furious cry, Brienne uses all her strength to drive the blade into his bowels, twisting the knife deeper as the hilt stops abruptly against his abdomen. At the same moment, Clegane’s sword pierces the man’s chest, showering warm blood over her armor.

Rolling out from under the Biter, she sees Podrick, white as a sheet, his hands still gripping the handle of his weapon. Clegane stands over her, frowning darkly, and holds out his hand. “You got that sick bastard. Come, let’s get the Elder brother to clean your face before you end up as pretty as me.”

Panting, she vacantly nods and reaches up to him just as another man crashes into Sandor, shouting and cursing.  Brienne scrambles for Oathkeeper in the wet sand, but soon finds herself blinded by the veil of blood pouring down her forehead.

“Fuck!” Clegane shouts with a grunt, slamming into the ground. The man kicks Sandor’s sword away before bringing his blade down against Sandor's chest. Swiftly his short sword thrusts upward to meet the blow, blocking the enemy sword stroke. Scrambling on his back, Sandor desperately grapples for purchase in the sandy dirt as the man raises his weapon over his head. Suddenly the broad stroke of Valyrian steel cuts the man nearly in two, and Brienne gasps as the body limply falls to the ground, revealing the familiar grin of Jaime Lannister.

“You two look like pigs wallowing in the mud. A pity to see two formidable warriors such as yourselves resort to this, ” he tisks lightly, his face falling at the sight of Brienne’s bloody wound.

“Jaime Lannister,” Sandor sneers, the man struggling to catch his breath. “The fuck you doing here, kingslayer?”

“Saving your ugly arse, apparently,” Jaime laughs outright, jerking Sandor to his feet with difficulty.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Sandor mutters with a scowl, shaking the hand he is offered.

“Good gods, Brienne,”  Jaime leans down, holding a handkerchief to her face. “Let’s get you taken care of, shall we?”

“I can do that,” she answers shakily, slowly sitting up.

“Better stay down for a bit,” Sandor rasps low. “That wound looks bad. I’ll bring Elder brother.”

“Stop being so stubborn, Brienne,” Jaime chides her. “Let me do this, will you?” Grinning like a wolf, he adds, “You’re still a maiden, I hope?”

“Really? Again with this?” Brienne bites her lip to keep from smiling.

“Well, who knows?” He shrugs, gently patting her temple. “Pod’s of an age now,” he casts a wicked smirk at the dumbfounded lad.  “He might have gotten brave one night, who’s to say? You never can tell with quiet ones.”

“Enough,” she chuckles, wincing in pain. “Yes, Ser Jaime. I am still a maid.”

“Good, you know I only rescue maidens.”

“So you’ve said before.”

“Is Sansa here with Clegane?”

“Yes,” Brienne leans in. “And prepare yourself: she is his wife of her own free will.”

“You don’t say?” Jaime widens his eyes. “Well, good on Clegane.”

“Shh, here she comes,” Brienne whispers.

Elder brother kneels down to tend Brienne’s wounds, gently moving Jaime aside. He rises to his feet upon seeing Sansa move out from behind Sandor, peering at him cautiously.

“Ser Jaime.”

Jaime pauses, taking in the beautiful young woman before him. She is taller, more angular of face then when he last saw her in Winterfell. Her body has taken on the curves of womanhood, and even disheveled, she holds herself with an elegant bearing. _She looks more like Lady Catelyn now._

“Lady Sansa, I am most relieved to see you.”

Sandor snorts beside her. Sansa glances up him questioningly, a severe look etching her lovely features. Finally she steps forward. “Forgive me, but I cannot say the same, Ser Jaime. Pray let me help Elder brother attend Lady Brienne, and then we shall speak.”


	52. An Unexpected GIft

Sansa expertly helps Elder brother dress Brienne’s wounds while Sandor looks on, watching her every move. He is proud of the skill she has developed studying under Elder brother, and the confidence she has gained in acquiring the healing arts warms his heart. Jaime Lannister has noticed too, it seems, and Sandor cannot stem the flood of jealously that takes hold of him.

Paling, he watches as she starts to move away from Brienne, suddenly clutching her head and slumping back on her heels.

“Clegane, your wife! Lady Sansa! Jaime-”

Sandor moves forward just as Jaime catches her in his arms. “Lady Sansa, are you quite well?”  Eying Sandor’s expression, he cautiously steadies her by placing his left arm around her waist, the innocent gesture enraging the man all the more. 

“Get the fuck away from my wife!” Sandor snarls, pushing him away and lifting Sansa into his arms. “What is it, little bird? Tell me.”

“I-I am merely exhausted,” Sansa rubs her forehead fretfully. “I suddenly got very dizzy and my head is throbbing. It must be from the-the experience earlier. Arya said it would be hard but I did not expect it to be so draining.“

“Aye, that it is,” he cuts her off, taking in Jaime and Brienne’s curious gaze.  He wishes they would just go the fuck back to King’s Landing and leave them be, and only Sansa’s distress restrains him from telling them so.

“My greatmother was of the north, you recall, and she told us such was the effect,” Sandor draws in a deep breath, struggling to steady his anger. “Sara and I thought she was spinning tales. Now I wish I’d listened.”

“Well, your greatmother was quite right. Maester Luwin said the same after Bran was hurt, too, though I must say my brother did not seem to have such difficulty with it.” Despite her weakened state, Sansa glares daggers at Jaime and then nuzzles deeper into Sandor’s neck. Her reaction secretly pleases Sandor, and it is all he can do to keep his lips from curling into a grin.

Elder brother places his hands on her wrists and throat. “You are quite clammy, my lady, and your heart is beating rather fast as well.”

“I know, I feel it. I am a bit short of breath.”

“What are you doing, holy man?”

“I am feeling Lady Sansa’s pulse points,” he says with a frown. “She is very weak and must not be allowed to walk on her own lest she faint away. Sansa needs lots of fresh red meat, scarce to come by in these parts.”

“I’ll get it if I have to have it shipped in from King’s Landing myself,” Jaime offers quietly.

“I am a fair hunter as well,” Brienne chimes in. “I have a dried haunch of auroch in my pack. If you boil it in water, Lady Sansa, the broth is quite nutritious and easy on the stomach.”

“Figures you would have such a large amount of food on hand, Brienne. Only Clegane could out-eat you, I'd wager,” Jaime cheekily tweaks her chin, the jest earning him a not so subtle kick from Sandor as he brushes past them carrying Sansa in his arms.

“Ouch! Watch where you place those longboats you call feet, Clegane!”

“ _You_ best watch where I put my foot next time you wield that sharp tongue, Lion, if you know what’s best for you,” Sandor growls, then spits on the ground.

Brienne stifles a giggle. “Please my lady, take it. Pod, get it for her, will you? There’s a good lad.”

“Thank you, you both are very generous,” Sansa wanly smiles at them, resting her head on Sandor’s shoulder. “We are most grateful for all you have done.”

“I’ll have the cook prepare it right away. We have some onions and potatoes to give it strength. And you must drink willow bark tea, lots of it,” Elder brother nods. “Will you see to her while I tend Lady Brienne, Elder McCann?”

Brienne looks as though she wants to protest but she remains silent as the holy man continues tending her injuries.

“It would be my pleasure,” the young septon picks up his medicine bag and gestures to Sandor. “Please, my lord, follow me. Before I trained with the Seven, I gained plenty of experience in these matters treating the wildings.”

Gazing at the kingslayer, Sandor knows that he should thank Jaime for his help as well as his assistance with Sansa but the words stick in his throat at the sight of the Lannister sigil adorning his armor. “We’ll pick this up in the morning, Jaime,” Sandor grunts, turning away.

“Just make sure you don’t run off in the night, Clegane,” Jaime teases in return, the man seeming to understand he just received Sandor’s version of gratitude.

“Run off? Bugger that,” he snorts, both amused and annoyed. Jaime and he were once close as young men and Sandor finds a certain comfort in their shared familiarity. “Have you ever known me to run from anything but wildfire?”

Slowly Jaime shakes his head, a deep sadness clouding his green eyes. “No, Clegane, I can’t say that I have. Any man with an ounce of sense would run from that thrice-damned concoction. Till the morning, then.”

“Till the morning, Lion.”

Sansa nuzzles closer and buries her face in Sandor’s beard, inhaling deeply. “Let us go, please, husband.”

“We’re on our way now, lass.”

Quietly Sansa murmurs in his ear, “Are you still quite angry with me? Knowing I have damaged our trust sickens me; please, say you will try to forgive me, and that we can go on as before.”

“Fuck, little bird, I’m not angry, it’s just-“ Sandor grits his teeth, his jaw clenching tightly as he recalls the helplessness he felt earlier. No, he did not like it, true enough,  but how can he possibly be angry that she used whatever gift the queer northern bestowed on her? It saved Sansa’s life and the lives of the brothers; it alerted him to the danger and he cannot fault her for that. Still, a measure of apprehension darkens his thoughts whenever he thinks of it, and Sandor feels now that he and Sansa truly understand the repercussions of said gift, both individually and as a wedded couple.

Sandor cannot grasp why her father would allow her to experience such a phenomena, since it clearly has had a negative impact on her health. Seeming to read his unease, Sansa gently tilts his face toward her. “What is it, Sandor? Unburden yourself, I beg you.”

“You no longer can read my thoughts, is that the way of it?”

“Sandor-“

“I never felt anything like that,” Sandor mutters, shaking his head. “I didn’t care much for it, either. And you, the entire time I was thinking of how it must be affecting you.” Sandor stares into her eyes, the man startled by the sheer exhaustion in her gaze. “I worried for your sanity. I don’t blame you, exactly. It is the bond, a bloody two edged sword if I ever saw one and not good for you at that. I doubt there is a damned thing that can be done about it now.”

“You are worried,” Sansa says quietly, brushing the hair from his eyes. “As am I. Bran never seemed to have suffered from it, though he was quite young when it started. Maybe it is different when it happens at an older age. I wish I had answers, truly I do.”

“Little bird, it’s a lot to take in for the both of us,” Sandor sighs heavily. “We both have questions that no one seems to have answers for, bloody hells. We’ll hear what the young septon says while he tends you. Just forget about the trouble between us for now. It is nothing fatal, that, and we will move past it.”

“Yes, I would like that,” she nods quietly, resting against him. “I am just so very tired, and I have the queerest feeling in my stomach.”

A surge of panic wells within him, for many years on the battlefield has taught the man that such a feeling often means internal injuries. “When did it start? Did anyone strike you? Did you fall down?”

“No, Sandor. I feel a small fluttering behind my navel. It comes and goes; it just started a few moments ago when you spoke.”

As he worries over this, Sandor silently watches two penitents fill the bath. When they are finished, he gingerly settles down on the bed, still keeping his arms around her.

Sansa nuzzles down against him and soon dozes peacefully. After Sandor lays her down, he watches Elder McCann sprinkles a pouch of herbs into the water.

“Are you injured, my lord?”

“A few scrapes.”

“I want you to bathe, you and your wife. Blood carries disease.”

“Aye, quite right.”

“Then I needs examine her-with your permission, of course.”

“Examine her for what?” His voice rises in alarm.

Elder McCann tentatively rests his hand on Sandor’s shoulder.  “My mother was a Free Folk healer and a very powerful warg as well. My father was a chieftain and a skinchanger. I am well acquainted with these phenomena.”

 _Warg. Skinchanger._ The words sound familiar to the man but he cannot quite place where he heard them. Scratching his beard, Sandor knits his brows in thought.  When did he first hear of it? From his greatmother, yes, but it seems he has heard it since then. Gambling with the northmen, mayhap? When he delivered a message to the Wall for Robert?

“Are you familiar with the terms?” Elder McCann gently probes.

“It seems I heard it in court from that runt Lancel Lannister; he had convinced Joffrey that Sansa’s brother Robb had the ability,” Sandor shakes his head. “He scared half the Baratheon bannermen with his outrageous tales of the Young Wolf leading a pack of beasts into battle, the bloody fools.”

“My lord, a skinchanger has the ability to enter the mind of an animal and take control of it. A skinchanger who is able to enter the mind of a wolf or dog has a singularly powerful gift, exceedingly rare, as both are pack animals and depend upon one another. A person with this ability is known as a warg and can command an individual animal as well as a large pack, depending on the strength of the skinchanger,” Elder McCann slowly explains, warily watching Sandor pace the room. “Such skill requires a measure of training. Considering the Stark bond with their direwolves, it is possible that there was a measure of truth to those stories about the Young Wolf. The gift, as the Free folk call it, often runs in families. I understand her sister and brothers direwolves are still alive, excepting that of King Robb.”

Sandor nods thoughtfully. “King Robert ordered Sansa’s wolf killed. She never got over it, poor lass. Considering Robb’s outcome, I doubt it was the gift at that, though I don’t pretend to understand such things. Fuck, I am only half starting to believe in them myself.”

“I believe that your wife warged into you, and also that enormous wolf belonging to her sister. The animal felt her fear and responded in kind. It drew the rest of her pack, and that is how the septry was protected.”

 _Sansa, a warg? Her wolf died, and yet she is able to command Arya’s beast. I’m nothing more than a dog and yet she bonded with me as well._ Snapping his eyes up at the man, Sandor steps closer. “Elder brother told you of it, did he?”

“Yes, he did. Please do not be angry. Knowing of my mother’s history, he came to me in the strictest confidence, believing I may be useful in understanding the matter.”

 _Fuck, must everyone know about this? The little bird is suffering, and now word of it has spread._  “Bloody hells.” Sandor turns away, rubbing his face with his hands. If Sandor had his way, no one would ever know of Sansa’s uncanny ability, lest she be styled a witch or a freak of nature in the same manner he so often heard the Targaryens spoken of. Sansa is beautiful, kind and gentle hearted, and he cannot bear the thought that his beautiful little bird may experience the same ignorance and prejudice that he has suffered his entire life. Fury surges through him afresh as he turns toward the septon, gripping his fists.

“Forgive me, my lord, but he was right in doing so,” Elder McCann hastily adds, backing away from him. “It proves very debilitating to some and there are many reasons the bond takes such a strong hold in one such as your wife.”

Scowling, Sandor searches Elder McCann’s face. “What do you mean? Speak plainly.”

Anxiously the young septon reaches into his pouch. “I meant to say one as young as your wife. I cannot speak with a certainty the reason for her miseries but I have a suspicion as to the origin.”

“Quit talking in circles and tell me what the fuck it is you think is wrong with her?” Sandor snarls, lifting him by the front of his robes.

“Will you give me leave to examine her? I needs to see all of her to be certain.”

“Certain of what?”

“Lord Clegane, please, sit down.” Sandor slumped down into the chair, never tearing his eyes from the man. “I am certain that Lady Sansa is with child, my lord,” Elder McCann quietly answers. “Elder brother and I consulted earlier and we both agree on the diagnosis.”

Panic swells through the man at the thought, his mind racing through the many times they have coupled since their wedded day. _With child? Why didn’t I think of that? I watched Cersei go through it three times-how did I miss the signs?  Moon tea is not always effective, and she has been using it sparingly so it would last._

Rubbing his head, Sandor’s shoulders sag under the weight of his words. _Sansa is with child, truly? It all fits together-the tiredness, difficulty with food, soreness-she’s been more emotional, too, crying at everything, clingy. Bloody hells, how could I have let this happen?_   _I’ve been greedy, taking her as often as she allows, bloody fool! I promised to protect her and I failed!_ Turning away, Sandor slams his fist on the table.

Elder brother enters the room, shifting uncomfortably as Sandor’s eyes fall upon the man. “I hope you will not deal harshly with her for it.”

“No, I would not,” Sandor softly rasps, his mind slowly catching up to Elder McCann’s words. S _ansa is carrying my pup, our pup. Our first child._ An unexpected surge of joy begins taking hold in his heart, pushing aside his fear and doubt. It is the same feeling he had when Sansa told him she loved him, and in that moment Sandor realizes that he already loves the babe growing within her.

“I admit now is not the ideal time to start a family but what sort of buggering fool would be angry over it?”

Elder McCann and Elder brother exchange relieved glances, both men visibly relaxing at the change in his demeanor. “Many men, I am afraid. I am glad to hear it. Pray tell me more about her symptoms, will you?”

“Go on then.”

“Has she been behaving differently?”

Yes, he has noticed her personality has changed quite a bit but Sandor convinced himself it was her grief and nothing more. Now that he thinks of it, her body has changed too; as of late she has grown heavy of breast and thick of hip, and Sandor loves it, fueling his already heated desire for her all the more. Swallowing hard to dispel his lustful thoughts, the man decides he will keep this part to himself. “Of course, her brother and mother were killed a moon ago hence. And then with this change…”

“Tell me, what sort of changes have you observed?”

“She has been very upset, prone to fainting, weeping, stomach upset, backache and headaches. She’s been more interested in intimate activities,” Sandor clears his throat. “Sansa has been very tired as of late as well, wan of color and lacking her usual energy.”

“I see,” Elder McCann nods understandingly. “Has she gained or lost weight? Is her body changing? Is she eating more?”

“Aye, she eats more but hasn’t gained much that I can tell. Her figure has changed some.”

Nodding knowingly, Elder McCann smiles broadly at Elder brother and then at Sandor. “Based on what you have said, I am even more certain she is with child. Perhaps it would be wise for Elder brother to look at her, just to confirm.”

Sandor nods distractedly, waving them away, and then settles on the edge of the bed, watching his beloved wife.

“Come, wife, we must bathe,” he lifts her into his arms.

“No, I want to sleep,” Sansa sleepily yawns, trying to turn over.

“I know lass, but you and I have blood on us and need to clean up. Elder brother is going to look at you afterward.”

Nodding, Sansa slowly strips off her clothes and allows him to lead her into the tub. Carefully he scrubs her porcelain skin until she is pink, taking careful note of the size and shape of her breasts. Indeed they are fuller, and when he glides the rag over her nipples, she whimpers softly.

“Tender, are you, wife?”

“Yes, but I do not know why. I am not having my moonblood. It is most strange.”

“Hmm,” Sandor mutters as he washes her hair. After bathing himself, he lifts her out of the water and dries her carefully. Her hips seem to curve out more, defining her small waist, and gently he cups the newly developed curve of her stomach. “When did you have your moonblood last? Do you remember? Was it before we went to Maidenpool?”

Pausing, she silently counts off the days on her fingers. “I am not certain,” Sansa admits with a frown. “That sounds about right. It was before I learned of Robb and Mother’s deaths. I have not had it since then. It is probably from grieving so deeply.”

“Nature doesn’t stop for grief, wife,” Sandor chuckles darkly, “if it did, the whole world would come to a halt.”

Suddenly Sansa’s eyes widen. “Oh the Mother save me! Could I be-?”

“Shh, easy lass.” A soft knock on the door interrupts them. Elder brother steps inside, wearing a wide smile. “He is going to look you over. He’ll know if you are with child for sure.”

“Oh Sandor!” Sansa wrings her hands. “Of all the times for this to happen.”

“It is alright, my lady, this will only take a moment. Sandor, would you like to observe what I am about to do? It is a bit intimate.”

“Aye,” Sandor agrees, wondering at the necessity of it.

“I know what you are thinking, and yes, it is necessary that I examine her in such a manner.”

“How did you know that? Can you not find out what you need to know without groping her? Seven hells, if you were any other man, why I-“

Laughing, Elder brother shakes his head. “All men wonder the same thing, lad, I know I did. This is the riskiest part of a healer’s profession, believe that.”

“I imagine it is.”

After carefully cupping each breast, Elder brother places his ear next to her belly, his eyes twinkling with recognition. “Come here, Sandor, I want you to feel this.”

Cautiously Sandor approaches the bed, his heart pounding harder than ever before. Elder brother pulls back the blanket and guides his hand to the curve just below her belly button. “Say something, lad.”

Frustrated, he turns his head to Elder brother. “Like what?” Sandor growls impatiently. “What am I supposed to say? I don’t feel-“

A slight tremor in her abdomen silences the man, and gasping, Sandor leans closer, cupping his hand over her belly. “Sansa, did you feel that movement?”

“Yes, love,” she whispered softly, tears pearling in her eyes. “Our child knows your voice it seems, early though it is in the pregnancy.”

“Congratulations,” the holy man shakes Sandor’s hand heartily and then offers a gentle kiss on Sansa’s cheek. “You are not as early in the pregnancy as you might think, my lady. I believe you are near the fourth moon.”

“The fourth moon? That is impossible-I was just getting over the ague then!”

For one of the few times in his life, Sandor feels his face flush heatedly as he recalls the morning she possessively took him, riding his length and making him beg for her, making him promise that his body and love was for her, and her alone.

Elder brother does not seem to notice his embarrassment however, and shrugging, he replies, “Well these things happen when we least expect it; it is the will of the gods. If folks waited for the ideal time for childbearing the earth would be quite empty.”

After Sansa dresses and buries herself under the furs, Elder McCann steps back inside. “Lady Sansa, if I may: was it not long after the time you went to Maidenpool that you began having these dreams of your father and sister?”

“Why yes, yes it was!” Sansa eagerly nods, clasping Sandor’s hand tightly in her own. “Remember, Sandor? I had the first dream right before we left the village! Oh, the gods have blessed us! Just think-Father knew I was with child and he reached out from the afterlife to keep me safe!”

“He did at that,” Sandor kisses her forehead. Sansa looks so genuinely happy that he remains silent, unwilling to cast any doubt in her mind.

“But we are in danger," she suddenly wrings her hands, "this is most inopportune.”

 “Do not fret, we’ll get through it,” Sandor draws her close to his chest, grinning at her. “Our first pup decided it was the right time, that’s all that matters.”

Throwing her arms around his neck, Sansa begins laughing in spite of herself, a deep melodious sound that Sandor knows he will never tire of hearing. Slowly he bends his head and kisses her gently, reverently, for now his little bird is the mother of his child.

“Bring whatever there is to be had to eat, will you?” Sandor turns to Elder McCann. “I want her well, and you both needs see her every need is met, understand?”

“Of course, Sandor,” Elder brother slaps him on the back. “It is a great blessing, lad, for out of so much death and misery, life has found a way to go on. May the gods bless and keep you and yours.” Before turning to leave, both holy men make the sign of the Seven over each of them.

After Sansa eats and snuggles down in bed with him, she quietly whispers, “Sandor, I have seen it all.”

“What have you seen?” He tips her chin up to him. “Tell me.”

“Remember, I saw our first child in my dream. A fine girl, with curly red hair and your deep gray eyes.”

“I recall,” Sandor rasps low, his emotions threatening to overtake him. “You must take care, wife, for her sake.”

“I will, Sandor, I promise,” Sansa leans up, brushing her mouth against his own.

The ferocious protectiveness Sandor felt in the past pales in comparison to the new, intense determination taking root in his heart. Silently he vows to Lord Eddard that he will do whatever it takes to keep his wife and child safe, and for the first time in his life, Sandor falls asleep with hopeful thoughts of their future family.


	53. The Gifts of Winter

After the battle, Sandor and Sansa spoke very little of Jaime’s reasons for coming to the Quiet Isle. Though Sansa brought it up on multiple occasions, Sandor steadfastly refused to discuss it, telling her they should wait until she is feeling better before they worried about what should be done. Jaime and Sandor, however, spoke away from her at length; and both men were most anxious to leave the septry as early as possible.

“I don’t need your help, lion,” Sandor snarled during the evening meal the night after the battle. “Neither does Sansa. You may have some need to help my wife in order to ease your buggering conscience but I don’t give two shits about that. The north will never forget what your family did to Ned, Lady Catelyn and Robb Stark, so just take Brienne and be gone-you’re both more of a liability to us now. Sansa and I will do just fine on our own.”

“Save your barking for someone else, dog,” Jaime laughed, the sound hollow, empty. “It would take far more than helping Sansa and Arya for me to get a peaceful night’s rest, believe that.”

Gritting his teeth, Sandor tersely nodded. “Aye, and for me, too.”

“I made a promise, me and Brienne both, to reunite the Stark girls with their surviving family. We need to find Arya and get both of them back to their brothers, maybe find a way to return Winterfell to the Starks.”

“Unlikely, that. Do what you will, but she and I are going to hide until this whole bloody mess is over.”

“And you honestly expect to be left alone, to live in peace and raise your children  until that glorious day arrives? Even if you and Sansa manage to get out of the south, you still need help taking back the castle from the Ironborn and the Boltons-and never mind the Targaryen girl. Face it, Clegane: you need us. Last night’s battle is only the beginning of your troubles.”

Deep down, Sandor knew Jaime was right but the truth in the lion’s words left a bitter taste in his mouth. “How can you still count yourself a knight when you have forsaken every vow you ever swore?” He bit back angrily. “I don’t give a flying fuck about your promises, Lannister, you or any other knight; they don’t mean shit to me.”

“You expect betrayal, Clegane; I knew you would. So many vows...they make you swear and swear,” Jaime stared off into the distance. “Defend the king. Obey the king. Keep his secrets. Do his bidding. Your life for his. But obey your father. Love your sister. Protect the innocent. Defend the weak. Respect the gods. Obey the laws. It's too much. No matter what you do, you're forsaking one vow or the other.”

“Well, you loved your sister, no one can deny that,” Sandor glanced sideways at him, and Jaime laughed in spite of himself.

“I’ve lost a hand, a father, a son, a sister, and a lover, and soon enough I will lose a brother. And yet they keep telling me House Lannister has won this war.”

“Bloody hells, lion,” was all Sandor could think of to say in return as he watched Jaime clench his remaining hand. He, too, knew what it meant to lose a sister, a father, a mother, and a brother but he would be damned if he would lose Sansa and their unborn child.   

“Alright, Lannister, let’s say you are right; you must know that I refuse to endanger Sansa, and I won’t jeopardize our child for any reason. We cannot leave the Quiet Isle just yet; Sansa needs time to heal after her ordeal.”

“So does Brienne, but time is the one thing we don’t have, Sandor,” Jaime answered tiredly. “I’m going to send my men away in a sennight, so our travel north will be less conspicuous. We will make the journey, the four of us together, as soon as Sansa is well. Does that suit you, Clegane?”

Furrowing his brow, Sandor reluctantly assented. “Aye, we’ll draw less attention, true, but bloody hells that’s a rough journey. Being in the company of a Lannister won’t sweeten the deal with the northern lords, lion, believe that.”

Jaime laughed again, the sound low and devoid of humor, far different than Sandor remembered from their days of service together. “Don’t I know it, Clegane. We’ll both need to rely on your lovely Sansa to protect us from them. That will be a switch.”

“How do you mean?” Sandor raised his brow.

“It will be the knights who are rescued by the fair princess, not the other way around.”

It was Sandor’s turn to laugh. “Aye, Sansa’s beloved fairy tales will be shot to hell.”

* * *

A fortnight later, Sansa remains abed, mostly at Sandor’s insistence. Despite her many pleas, Sandor stubbornly refuses to leave her for any reason aside from hunting, the man spending his days anxiously hovering by her side. 

Jaime's words haunt Sandor each evening as soon as Sansa falls asleep. After yet another fitful night’s rest, Sansa awakened him at dawn by passionately kissing his neck. After they made love, he gave up trying to sleep and put their afternoon meal on the fire.

By late morning, however, he could not resist holding Sansa in his arms and finally Sandor was able to rest. It was a deep, dreamless sleep, and in the early afternoon the aroma of venison stew gently rouses him from sleep. Nuzzling into her neck, Sandor whispers, “Wake up, little bird, the stew is ready.”

“It smells so good,” Sansa eagerly sits up with a smile. “With my appetite, you will end up hunting every spare moment of the day.”

“Our child is hungry, lass,” Sandor leans over and kisses her soundly, “so eat to your heart’s content and let me worry about finding more.” 

Plenty of good food and rest has resulted in a healthful weight gain for the expectant mother, relieving the very worried, increasingly surly father-to-be.  Now full of figure, Sansa is even more elegant and graceful. Watching the transformation carrying his child has wrought on Sansa’s shape has left the fierce man even more in love with her than ever, and far more protective of her as well.

“Do we have any more honey?” Sansa asks with a mischievous smile, stirring her stew carefully. “It is just what this dinner needs to be utterly scrumptious.”

Aside from the change in her appearance, the most curious effect pregnancy has on the little bird are her cravings-both for him as well as for unusual food combinations. Sandor has eagerly indulged the former and tried hard to accommodate the latter without comment, though he cannot abide what experience has taught him she is about to do.

Grunting, Sandor shakes his head and passes her the sweet substance. The man cannot suppress a disgusted groan, however, as he watches her pour a generous amount over her stew and then dig into the bowl with relish.“Bloody hells, how can you eat it like that?” Sandor shivers and turns away.

“Oh, it is quite delicious; would you like to try it?” Sansa holds out a spoonful to him. “Come on, now. If you must tease me you must at least have some.”

“Gods no!” He recoils in mock horror while swatting her hand away. “How you can stomach that is beyond me, wife. I hope the pup doesn’t grow up liking her stew that way.” Since sharing her dream of a red haired, gray eyed girl, he and Sansa have taken to calling the unborn child by the feminine diminutive. Speaking about his daughter thrills Sandor, and he takes every opportunity to refer to her in conversation with anyone who will listen.

“She will take after her father, I have no doubt, for she kicks every time she hears you raise your voice. I would far rather she eat honey on her stew than take after some of your traits, husband.” After watching him fidget in his chair next to the hearth, Sansa quietly comments, “Sandor you are so very good to me, but do you not think it time you help Jaime with the repairs? Brienne is not yet well enough to work and Podrick and the brothers need all the help we can offer.”

“You just mind yourself and leave Jaime to his own devices. It won’t kill the lion to do some honest labor,” Sandor snarls low while proceeding to ferociously plump the pillows beneath her. “And he doesn’t need a wench doing his share of it, either, or you begging others to help him. Brienne needs get well, no matter her skill with a sword or the fact that she’s bigger than most men; some things aren’t right to expect of her when there are plenty of able bodied men around.”

“Of course not, Sandor,” Sansa takes his hand in hers. Since the battle, Sandor no longer tolerates Jaime teasing  her, the man having found a kindred spirit of sorts in the homely female knight, and it amuses Sansa to no end to hear him come to her defense.  “I merely think it is too much for Jaime to do alone, particularly with his…infirmity.”

“Missing a hand is not ill, little bird; make no mistake. It won’t be easy but he can learn to adjust. I’ve seen many a man do just fine with such an infirmity. With the old lion gone, the kingslayer is so rich he could bloody well have a golden hand made to scratch his balls with, the buggering fool.”

Softly giggling, Sansa blushes at his course words. “I hope our babe doesn’t learn to speak as you do. Can you imagine our fine girl saying such a thing?” Affecting a small voice, Sansa continues, “Bloody hells, Papa! Bugger that, Papa!”

After laughing long and hard, Sandor slips on his tunic and breeches. “If she speaks the truth, I’ll be satisfied.” More seriously, he adds, “Jaime is nothing if not resilient, Sansa. He’s still got another good hand he can use; high time he learned how instead of relying on others.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right. There are some things even a Lannister must do for himself. It is a lot of work, though, helping the brothers repair the sept from the battle, bury the dead, and tend the wounded.”

“Come, wife,” Sandor gently lifts her out of the bed. “Never mind that now. Let’s get you readied for the healers. They’ll be here shortly.”

“Sandor, really, you need not fuss over me in this manner,” Sansa caresses his cheek. “I feel good and strong now; I can get ready on my own.”

“You can turn cartwheels for all I care after they give word you are well, you hear? Until then you rest and let me take care of you.”

“Alright, as you say,” Sansa meekly submits as he settles into the bath.

“Are you going to tell Elder McCann about your dreams of late?” He ventures while rinsing her hair.

Sighing, Sansa closes her eyes and leans into his touch. “Yes, of course I will, though it is most natural to have unusual dreams when pregnant, Sandor.”

“You are not just any woman, Sansa, you are my wife,” Sandor growls low at her. “Your father has seen fit to bond us, and make use of your…connection to the wolves as a Stark. I’ll not have it interfere with the pup, though.”

“I know, Sandor,” she leans up and kisses him. After she finishes dressing in a clean house gown and settling back on the bed, Sandor allows the brothers inside.

“How are you feeling my lady?” Elder brother smiles at her as he feels her pulse points. “Your heartbeat is most strong, and your cheeks are rich in color this morning.”

“Thank you,” Sansa smiles up at him, glancing happily at Sandor. “I am quite well.”

“Have you had any more dreams, Lady Sansa?” Elder McCann warily inquires, the man unwilling to rouse the Hound in Sandor Clegane after seeing the man in battle. “Has your father come to you since last we spoke?”

Uneasily Sandor watches as Sansa pulls the covers tightly to her chest. “I have, Elder McCann but not of Father.”

“What sort of dreams, Lady Sansa?”

“Well, I often dream that I am running with Greywind, who was my brother Robb’s direwolf.” After pausing, Sansa whispers, “He was murdered at the Frey wedding along with the rest of my family.”

“I see. When you are with him, are you as you are now or in another form?” Elder McCann and Elder Brother exchange glances, the gesture transforming Sandor’s concern into unadulterated anger.

“What the fuck is that look? Don’t you men start keeping secrets now.”

“What is wrong? Please, tell me,” Sansa whispers, grasping for Sandor’s hand.

“Easy Lady Sansa. There is nothing the matter. Please, tell me a bit more about the dreams.”

“We are running in the forest, Greywind and I,” Sansa explains, a small smile playing on her lips as she relives the dream. “I can smell the dirt, the dead leaves, the frost settling over the wood. He nips at my neck and we play together, then he dashes off and calls to me from the gate of a great castle.”

Puzzled, Elder brother shakes his head. “I do not understand; wolves do not bark. Is he growling at you?”

Sansa pauses, looking up at Sandor sadly. “Go on, little bird,” he nudges her, the man carefully schooling his face into one of bland interest so as to hide the mounting anxiety gripping his heart.

“No, nothing like, Elder brother. Wolves have certain vocalizations they use with members of the pack. In fact, they do have the ability to bark but it does not sound the same as a dog.”

“How interesting,” the holy man nods.

Encouraged, Sansa continues, “I recognize the sound Greywind is making in the dream; Lady would make that noise when she saw me first thing in the morning, and her brothers and sister also did the same. It is as though Greywind is, well, speaking to me.”

“And what does Greywind say to you?” Elder McCann probes further while offering a reassuring smile.

“I cannot say, exactly-it is far clearer to me in the dream. It is as though I feel his meaning in my heart, if that makes sense. When I am awake, I have a hard time expressing it with words.”

“If it is any comfort, my lady, your words make perfect sense,” Elder McCann pats her hand.  There is a kindred discernment not spoken with words  between the holy man and his wife, and Sandor does not like it one whit. “Just speak plainly, McCann,” Sandor rasps low. “Before I lose what’s left of my temper.”

“Yes, tell us all what it means, please, brother.” Elder brother intones firmly, the holy man also seemingly short on patience with him.

“Certainly.” Sighing, Elder McCann cautiously begins speaking. “After much prayer to the old gods and taking into consideration what I learned about such phenomena from my mother, I believe I know the reason Sansa had such difficulty after warging into her sister’s beast.”

“Which is?” Sandor demands harshly as a fresh wave of anxiety chokes his throat.

“My lord, it is because Lady Sansa is, in fact, not solely a warg, but a skin changer.”

“What the fuck does that mean?!” Sandor shouts, gripping his fists tightly, disbelief quickly dissolving into cold fear for his wife and child.

“Sandor, please, there is no reason for rudeness,” Sansa frowns at him. “Elder McCann, I am familiar with the term. Do continue.”

Silently he slumps down beside her, lost in his own thoughts as Elder McCann drones on about the gift. Before Sandor was assigned as Joffrey’s sworn shield, word of the return of the Others reached the capital, and Cersei had sent him to scout beyond the Wall in order to glean more information.

During his time there, Sandor heard many fanciful tales about the Mormont women being able to turn into bears, even mating with them and bearing cubs. Some Wildings were said to have the ability as well, as he recalled. Most of it was spoken around the fires after much mead, though, and he took the stories as just the overactive imaginations of bored men talking shit while drinking.

The idea that Sansa could be capable of such an extraordinary thing addles his mind, sending a fresh wave of rage through his body. Leaping to his feet, Sandor paces the room while Elder brother hastily moves between them. “What this means, Sandor, that your wife may have the ability to not just control the mind of another animal but transform into its form, to wear it as her own.”

“Oh my,” Sansa whispered, shaking her head. “Are you certain of this?”

“Yes, I am afraid I am-both my mother and I have the ability as well.” Elder McCann shifts uncomfortably. “I control it, as it is not in line with the faith of the Seven.”

“But what-what do I do?” Sansa asks, her voice rising in panic. “I do not want this, gods forgive me. I do not know how to control this ability, and I do not wish to anger the new gods! And most of all, I do not wish to go through that…experience again.”

“I can help you, Lady Sansa,” Elder McCann offers quietly. “It need not be that way, I assure you. With proper training,  it will feel quite natural, even comforting.”

“No, gods be damned,” Sandor shouts out, his voice shaking in a mix of fear and fury. “I will not have it! I won’t risk the pup or my wife, understand? You just keep your damnable sorcery to yourself!”

“I understand your apprehension, Sandor, but please, let him help Lady Sansa, I beg of you. She will be alright.”

Elder brother’s words do no comfort Sandor, but his wife immediately smiles with relief, and so despite his misgivings, he decides to remain silent. He will not allow the men to convince her to do something that she does not want, and Sandor is determined he will do all it takes to see her wishes respected.  But he also knows he must watch his tongue; to upset her by airing his doubts could very well risk their child.

“I am determined to keep Sansa calm and safe during her pregnancy, no matter the cost. What is it you wish, little bird? Tell me truly.”

“I am not sure. I-I am afraid. I never asked for this, you know,” Sansa wipes her eye. “I just want to be-“

“Normal?” He nods understandingly, for many times throughout his life Sandor wished the very same thing, imagining his life would be less difficult without the scars. To hear her give voice to a similar wish cuts him to the core; but the transformation Lord Eddard has placed on his wife cannot be ignored or denied. “Might be if you learn how to deal with it you’ll be less afraid.”

Shrugging, Sansa considers his words for a moment and then says, “Yes, perhaps you are right. If it is to be, then I must learn how to manage it.”

“Go on, then, Sansa,” Sandor kneels beside her and tips her chin up to him. “Let McCann teach you and see how you feel about it then. If you do not wish to continue with it, no one will force you, I swear it.”

“I’ll see your wishes are honored, Lady Sansa, Lord Clegane; you have my word.”

 “Exactly how do you mean to train her, holy man?”

“There are several methods,” Elder McCann slowly explains, glancing at Elder brother.

“None of what you are planning will harm our child or I’ll put you in the ground, believe that.”

“No my lord, of course not; I would never risk your wife or child.  However, I must be careful, though, for some of the old ways violate the laws of the Seven.”

“Oh, no!” Sansa wrings her hands. “I cannot go against the gods of my mother. Elder brother, please, is there no allowance for such in the faith?”

Crossing his arms, Elder brother settles in the chair beside her. “Such abilities are considered barbarity by the Faith of the Seven, my lady, and any inclination must be suppressed at all costs.”

“Forgive me, but why is it so? Surely such is seen as a gift from the old gods necessary for survival,” Sansa glances up at him, seeking reassurance; silently Sandor squeezes her hand firmly in response. “These gifts date back to the Kings of Winter, does it not? And Aegon used his abilities, as did his sister wives, at least until he converted to the Seven.”

“Yes, my lady, you speak truly,” Elder McCann nods.  “It served its purpose then, as it does now.”

“My father used to say that things happen in winter that do not in the spring; with all that is taking place, I understand now that this includes skin changing, warging, even the return of the Others and dragons.”

Elder McCann smiles broadly at her. “You speak well, my lady, for my mother often said the very same. She also said that these gifts originally were not unique to certain families but rather certain races of man during the Age of Heroes-the northerners had the abilities of skin changing and warging from the First Men, while those from Old Valyria have the ability walk into fire and control dragons. These traits were believed to be steeped in magic but that was not the case. Over time, as the highborns intermarried, and the traits became less common. The Targaryens must have recognized the truth of the matter, which is why they wed brother to sister.”

“Truly?” Sansa sat up, curiosity piquing her fine features. “How very fascinating! This is the oral history above the Wall?”

“Yes, the Free Folk shamans have passed them down for centuries.” Elder brother confirms. “I was raised on it. It is a beautiful heritage, is it not?”

“Why yes! Sandor, isn’t it amazing?” She squeezed his hand enthusiastically. “It will be wonderful to pass on to our children.”

Swallowing his doubt, Sandor only grunts in response.

“Do Westermen have such gifts?”

“It is widely thought so but after Aegon converted to the Faith of the Seven, he banned many practices-though he did not abstain from using them himself-and  it has been all but lost in the south.”

“That is a shame, truly. Perhaps it runs in Sandor's family which may further explain our bonding."

Elder brother nodded enthusiastically. "An intriguing theory, my lady and very sound."

"Thank you, Elder McCann, for sharing with us. Learning the origin and rich history of these gifts somehow makes the prospect of having such a bit less, well-“ Sansa wrings her hands while averting her eyes.

“Scary?” Elder McCann finishes for her. "Daunting?"

Sheepishly Sansa nods. “Yes, both, I am afraid. I cannot help but be fearful of the unknown.”

“Indeed, my lady, it is most understandable.”

“Elder brother, perhaps in time the Seven will come to appreciate these gifts in light of what lay before us," Sansa optimistically offers. "We will need all the help the old gods and the new can provide. Would it not be better to encourage understanding than ban people from using them?"  

“Yes, that seems to be a very wise course."

"Forgive me for saying so, but if it indeed comes through certain races of man, then it is unreasonable to expect entire groups of people to change their true natures, do you not agree?”

"I wholeheartedly agree with you, Lady Sansa,” Elder brother quietly assents, “but what I am about to say must stay in this room.”

“Of course.”

“As a man of the Seven, I cannot openly condone your training, and yet, as a man of the gods, I cannot deny it is their will that such bonds take place and it is through them that you have made this transformation.”

“The old gods do not condemn it. Why do the Seven?”

“The Faith does not openly condemn skin changing or warging, but rather it is depicted in scripture as an abomination to the natural order of the new gods. I believe it is an unjust prejudice, born from fear of the unknown and meant to rein in Aegon’s power.”

Anger curls in his throat, but still Sandor merely nods knowingly. “Little bird, it’s a more a matter of bloody religion scraping to keep its position of power, believe that,” he rasps, struggling to sound calm. “The Targaryens, even though they later worshiped the Seven, are styled as monstrosities because of the connection they share with their dragons. If that Targaryen girl returns to the throne, it may very well put an end to worship of the Seven in the south.”

Gasping, Sansa covers her mouth. “For shame, Sandor-“

“He is right, Lady Sansa,” interjects Elder brother, “it is widely known the High Septon is controlled by the crown, and vice versa; the Lannisters have paid dearly to have their sins covered over. If the Targaryens return, the Seven will no longer control the throne, as it is said that the young Targaryen girl now worships her husband’s gods and has the gift herself. She brought her dragons to birth in her husband’s funeral pyre, it is said, and she came away unscathed. I hardly believe she will then convert to a religion that shuns such practices.”

“Fire cannot kill a dragon,” Sandor mutters, recalling that Jaime said Aerys repeated the phrase frequently during his rule. “But a sword will do the job quick enough.”

Clearly confused, Sansa knits her brows at him but Sandor offers no explanation in front of the brothers.

“Ignorance in all forms thrives on hatred, my lady,” Elder McCann says quietly, “I have experienced this firsthand since travelling south, and war has made it that much worse. I am sure you are aware of the derisive manner in which both the smallfolk and the high lords refer to the connection your family has with direwolves, the Mormonts with the greatbears, and the wargs among the Wildings.  It is just one of many ways the Lannisters scare the populace into believing they are the only reasonable rulers for the Seven kingdoms.”

Snorting, Sandor shakes his head. “Bugger that; don’t believe it, little bird. This is just another case of self-righteous hypocritical bastards looking the other way when it suits them, like they did with Gregor and with Joffrey.”

“I was stunned to hear Ser Jaime’s account of the king’s death,” Elder brother comments darkly, steering him away from the dangerous topic, “though the gods are not to be mocked. I was told once that Joffrey cut himself on the Iron throne.”

“Yes, that is true, we were there when it happened,” Sansa whispers. “I knew then something would happen to Joffrey, though I did not know when.”

“The septons should have read the signs-they must have known he was not the rightful heir.” Elder brother shakes his head. “They could have prevented it. The gods gave him due recompense for his presumptions.”

“Choking is a far better death than that little shit deserved, believe that,” Sandor snarls, wrapping his arms around Sansa’s growing belly. “If the gods were just they would have burned him and the buggering septons.”

Elder brother turns to Sansa. “You are recovering far better than we expected, Lady Sansa. I am comfortable recommending that you get some fresh air, perhaps begin doing a few chores. If you should tire, then rest.”

“Thank you, Elder brother.”

Sandor hands the men two pouches of coin and walks them outside. As they move down the path, Jaime hurries to meet them. “Clegane, I need to have a word with you.”

“What is it, lion?” Sandor rasps, the grating tone causing Jaime to grin. “Don’t you have work to do?”

“Come here,” Jaime beckons them. “Look at this.”

Leaning over, Sandor spots immense bear tracks, the huge paw print pressed deep into the wet sand. “Seven bloody hells, look at the size of that bastard’s paws,” he whistles.

Jaime nods. “Those are no ordinary black bear tracks, Clegane-those are the tracks of a greatbear.”

“You don’t say?” Sandor mutters with a frown. “Never seen one before.”

“I have, and trust me when I say that you don’t want him so close to the cabin,” Jaime sniffs. “I met you out here so as not to frighten Sansa.”

“Aye,” Sandor nods. “I’ve got nothing that can kill an animal that size.I can fashion a long bow and special arrows, but nothing that will stand up against that hide. I could very well end up wounding the bastard just enough to make him mean. I wish the wolf bitch’s direwolf was still around.”

“You cannot let your wife fight all your battles, Clegane.”

“Why you piece of-“ Sandor lunges for Jaime, who just manages to sidestep him.

“That was a low blow; my apologies,” Jaime smirks. “I have a few dragonbone lances in my company. We’ll need to set a trap.”

Elder McCann draws a deep breath, the man finding his words with difficulty. “Sandor, I think it best to leave the creature be,” he finally manages, “ if he meant harm he would have already attacked the sept.”

Incredulous, Jaime gapes at the man. “Are you mad? Leave the beast be, you say? No, out of the question. Clegane listen to me: it cannot be done-it is far too risky with so many people about.”

Frowning, Sandor nods slowly. “Agreed, but what can we do to stop an animal of that size?”

Elder brother stares curiously at Elder McCann. “Perhaps your men can fashion a trap for us. How long would it take?”

“A few days, mayhap,” Jaime shrugs,  his mouth curling into a sardonic smirk. “My men are not hunters so it might take a bit longer. Perhaps Brienne can come up with an idea-she’s tangled with bears before.” 

Sandor puzzles over his words but decides he will ask for details another time. “Ask her, then. Pod might have some ideas as well; he’s a handy fellow.”

“That he is.” With that Jaime makes his way toward Brienne’s cabin, the man seemingly content to have a reason to visit his ailing friend, as the brothers have kept him away from her private quarters since they arrived.

“If you men will excuse me, I will take my leave as well,” Elder brother smiles and makes the sign of the Seven over them. “I have some herbs drying for Sansa’s teas. Sandor, please continue to see that she gets plenty of food and rest and try not to worry.”

“Many thanks,” Sandor waves at him.

Hesitantly Elder McCann mulls about the cabin. “Might I speak with you privately, my lord?”

“What is it?” Sandor asks shortly. “Make it quick, my wife needs me.”

“I must show you something later on. Would you meet me here tonight after the sun sets?”

“You want to meet me here on the beach at night with a greatbear afoot?” Sandor grumbles irritably. “What in bloody hells for? I’m not keen on running into that monster, holy man.”

“We’ll be quite safe, I assure you.”

“What, you counting on your gods to save you?” Sandor snorts derisively.

“No, but I trust we will be safe enough.”

Leaning in, Sandor stares at the man closely. “And how might you know that?”

“Please, my lord, I will explain it to you tonight.”

Heaving a deep sigh, Sandor slowly agrees before heading back to Sansa.


	54. Dogs, Lions, Wolves and Bears

For Brienne, healing has been a daunting, arduous journey. The wounds she sustained during her fight with the Biter led to infection, and after other means of treatment fail, Elder brother and Elder McCann removed the surrounding tissue from the wound. Though she was given milk of the poppy, Podrick, Sandor and Jaime needed to restrain her during the procedure.

Sansa begged him to check on Brienne, and so grudgingly Sandor began stopping by once a day. He and the woman talked about weapons, different tactics for disarming an opponent, and other related subjects. Jaime stayed in the room, listening, making sarcastic comments whenever possible; and after weeks of observation Sandor decides that far more about Jaime has been altered than merely losing his hand.

In fact, the lion is so altogether changed that Sandor hardly recognizes the brash, confident young man of his youth.  Once he would have never given a woman like Brienne anything more than derision, but this version of Jaime now spends his days alternating between overseeing the remaining Lannister soldiers and caring for her.

Sandor finds the change curiously unsettling. He knew where he stood with the kingslayer, but now, he is not certain what to think of the man. His gut tells him that Jaime is not trying to deceive him, as though caring for Brienne is some act meant to disarm Sandor’s keen sense of character.

Still, his treatment of Brienne is not the only area where Jaime has taken Sandor by surprise; during Sansa’s recovery, Jaime brought Sandor a half bolt of deep teal blue broadcloth for her, saying it was a gesture of goodwill and sincerity.

“And when have Lannisters ever cared about what the sheep think of them?” Sandor smirked at the time.

“They don’t,” Jaime winked and left the room.

As far as Sansa was concerned, however, it would take far more than a few strips of cloth to gain her trust in any Lannister. The lion’s offering did not set well with her, his wife seeing it as an empty gesture just as Sandor suspected she would. But true to her generous nature, after her annoyance diminished, the young woman recognized the provision would fill the needs of others.

During the battle Lady Brienne’s clothing was ruined, and so Sansa went about fashioning a new set of garments while she recuperated. At first she thought to fabricate a gown that would allow her to ride astride her horse but Sandor insisted that the woman would have no use for such a gown, and so eventually she decided on sewing a new tunic and breeches in the same style the Mormont women wore. She finished the garment more than a sennight past, and Sandor figures she will be eager to make her visit.

As he watches Elder McCann enter the septry, Sandor wonders if it is possible the lion is in love with the female knight.  She could hardly be more different than Cersei, excepting her blond hair. Still, it is the only explanation for the dramatic change in his comrade in arms. He is well aware that Sansa’s love has had a similar transformative effect upon him, and the man cannot help wondering if Jaime finds him singularly changed as well.

Indeed, when last he saw Jaime, Sandor Clegane was more Hound than man, and cared only for his steel; now Sansa and his unborn child are his only concern. Fear for his wife and baby has gnawed at him with an intensity he has never experienced, and at hearing Elder brother and Elder McCann’s confirmation that both are safe and healthy, a surge of relief overwhelms the man. Longing to speak to Lord Eddard, Sandor decides to make his way to the lichyard.

Kneeling down at the gravestones of Lady Catelyn and Robb Stark, he closes his eyes.   _I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you do, guard your daughter and grandchild, Lord Eddard. I cannot live without them. Help me keep them safe and return them to your lands. Help us get through the winter._

A familiar voice interrupts his prayer. “Now here is a sight I never thought to behold. When did you find religion, Clegane?”

Shrugging, Sandor slowly turns toward Jaime. “I’ve not found religion, Lannister, but any man above asking whatever gods might be listening for the safety of his wife and child is a bloody fool.”

Jaime nods knowingly. “I couldn’t agree more. It is not commonly known, but I prayed for Cersei when she was bringing forth her children.”

Scoffing, Sandor eyes him sharply. “You mean _your_ children?”

“Yes.” Jaime softly answers, the color draining from his normally tanned face. “Quite right-my children.”

As Jaime speaks, the thought strikes Sandor that Jaime has lost his firstborn when Joffrey died; as an expectant father, the realization takes on special meaning. “Your Myrcella is a proper lady.” Sandor offers guardedly.  “I often wished she had been born first when I protected Joff. She would have made a fine queen. That Dornish prince ever hurts her and I’ll gut him balls to brains.”

“Why Hound you already sound positively paternal.”

“Bugger that, she was aways kind to me.”

“Her betrothed is well reported on by all. Considering the goings-on at the Red Keep, I’d say she is better off where she is wouldn’t you agree?” A wry grin spreads across Jaime’s face.

Sandor nods. “Truer words.”

“Was she indeed kind to you? Then she doesn’t take after her parents.” He attempts a laugh. “I suppose you had more to do with my children’s upbringing than I.”

Sandor understands that he wants to learn more about his children, and that it pains Jaime that a sworn shield had so much time with them whereas their own father did not. “Myrcella never seemed to mind my wreck of a face. She took to calling me “Sanda” when she was a wee lass. Toddled around after me, too. She used to make me little stuffed dogs. I beat down half the Baratheon army for teasing me about it, too. She always insisted I was her knight, and the only one I let get away with saying such, you best believe.”

Jaime bitterly attempts another dry laugh, his deep green eyes clouding over as he does so. “And what of Tommen? What can you tell me of my remaining son?”

“A kind boy, always climbing up trees and hiding under furniture. Loved chasing his kittens. Cersei sent me to find him almost every day and it made Joff somewhat jealous, which is why he took to killing them.” Sandor bites his tongue, wishing he could take back the last remark.  “Your Tommen has the makings of a good king if given the chance to be himself. The boy has courage; he takes after his sister.”

“Good, good.” Jaime wistfully sighs. “I fear it is no thanks to Cersei. It seems I missed my chance with all of them. I wish you better luck with yours, Clegane, truly.”

It does not escape his notice that Jaime refrains from asking about Joffrey, the child that was in Sandor’s constant care. The dramatic change in the once cocky lion unnerves him completely, and unsure how to respond to the unexpected change in dynamic between them, Sandor merely gruffly barks out, “Many thanks.”

“How is Sansa and the babe?” Jaime swiftly changes the subject. “I saw the brothers leave the cabin; all is well I hope?”

“Aye, both are fine. I’ll bring Sansa to visit Brienne in a bit.”

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Jaime nods. “Clegane, there is something you should know, something Brienne and I should have told you as soon as we arrived.”

He knew it; the bloody lion was up to something after all. “Go on then.”

“Lady Catelyn and Robb confided to Brienne that Ned had built a small keep for Sansa when she was born. The Starks meant to give it to her as a wedded present, a small castle for the grandchildren to inherit one day.”

“And Ned never told Sansa about this supposed place? Why ever not?”

“When she was betrothed to Joffrey, Ned decided to keep it a secret from Robert. You know what happened to his sister Lyanna, don’t you?”

“Aye, I was there when Robert visited her tomb. Messy business, that.”

“Well, Ned knew Robert wanted to join houses and so he planned ahead for Sansa. Catelyn said he just could not bear risking the chance that his daughter might meet a similar fate one day. He meant to give Sansa what his sister did not have-a place in which to escape the Iron throne, a place that she would never be found. Aside from Brienne, only the Reeds and the Mormonts know of its location.”

Stunned, Sandor stares hard at the man. “Bloody hells.”

“They thought they would have no need for it, but once the war began they meant to use it as a hiding place for the girls and eventually the younger boys as well. But I heard they were killed by the Greyjoy boy.”

Sandor shakes his head. “I don’t believe they are dead. Sansa feels they are alive and so does Arya.”

Slowly Jaime rubs his beard. “I hope to the gods it is true. The Starks swore her to return Sansa and Arya there, and I mean to see it through. By all rights Sansa should have insisted you slit my bloody throat when we arrived.”

“She has a gentle heart but she is still a wolf; she may yet,” Sandor growls low, not wanting Jaime to feel too comfortable with his wife just yet. “Don’t press your luck, lion.”

“Sandor, you must realize that you cannot return her to Winterfell. The Boltons hold the place now, and you cannot fight them alone.” Leaning in close, Jaime lowers his voice. “I am determined to find the place Ned built for her-Brienne calls it Winterfrost Keep-and see that the two of you get there safely, preferably before Sansa’s time comes. Perhaps we will find her brothers and sister and return them to her as well. I have to try, Sandor; it is the least I can do.”

Guardedly Sandor studies him for deception. “How far is this keep from Winterfell?”

“Deep in the Wolfswood along the Last River. Lady Catelyn entrusted Brienne with a map to the place when she sent her to find Sansa and Arya but so far she will not tell me exactly where it is. Says I’ll find out when we are closer. I guess she doesn’t entirely trust me either.”

Sneering, Sandor grips Jaime’s tunic. “A smart one she is. You better not be fucking with me, lion. You Lannisters killed off what little family Sansa has left, and I’ll not have you betray her too.”  

“I would not, Sandor, I swear it on the lives of my children.” Jaime returns his gaze, his countenance open and calm. Bewildered by Jaime’s reaction, Sandor roughly turns him loose.

“Clegane, my word may not mean much to you. However, now that you are expecting a child, you surely realize what I have given up in leaving Tommen with Cersei to see this through. We must learn to find a way to trust one another for Sansa’s sake.”

“Just remember my words,” Sandor rasps over his shoulder and then heads back to Sansa. “Or you’ll beg the Stranger to take you before I’m through.” With that he stomped back to the cabin.

* * *

 _So Lord Eddard had a keep built for Sansa-could it be true?_ Sandor has no way of knowing but since they have already agreed to travel north together, he sees no advantage to Jaime lying about it. Recalling Sansa’s dream of their firstborn, Sandor remembers she mentioned a great keep along an icy river. Was this in fact Eddard’s way of revealing the place to her? He means to ask her to relate the details once more. Once he lays eyes on his lovely wife bustling about the cabin, however, Sandor decides he will discuss it with Brienne in private first before mentioning it to her.

Sansa smiles brightly at him when he enters the cabin and Sandor carefully schools his face into a tight smile.

“I cannot wait to leave this stuffy cabin. I want to go for a walk, my love.”

“As you say wife,” Sandor turns away from her, struggling to hide his feelings. “Where do you want to go first? The weather is quite warm; down by the water, perhaps?”

“No, l think not,” Sansa slips on her gown and then turns so he can lace her up. “I would rather visit Lady Brienne. She came to me several times but I have been remiss in visiting her during my extended bed rest.”

“She can hardly blame you for that, wife. She knows our pup comes first.” Sandor curiously follows her line of sight to the colorful bundle at the foot of the bed. “Eager to gift her with your handiwork, are you?”

“Yes, I must admit that I am,” Sansa smiles self-consciously. “I hope she likes it. I am a bit nervous.”

“Why is that now?” Sandor turns her toward him once he finishes tying her gown.

“I am trying to right a wrong from my youth with this gift, I suppose. It is selfish of me.”

Now even more interested, Sandor tips her face up to him with a frown. “How so?”

“Growing up, Arya always wanted a set for herself like these,” Sansa fingers the material tenderly, sheepishly glancing away from him. “She embarrassed me by begging me to make them for her every time the Mormonts came to visit.”

Chuckling softly, he shakes his head. “Too much of a lady to agree to it, were you?”

 “Yes, I was scandalized by the idea of a highborn wearing what I considered men’s clothing and was always relieved when Mother stepped in and refused.”

“And now?”

Shame colors her face as she buries her face in his tunic. “I deeply regret not indulging her. She is my little sister; why did I care what others thought of her choice of clothes? What a foolish, wicked girl I was!”

“You were trained to care what everyone thought of you, even before you thought of your own wishes, from the time you learned to crawl,” Sandor shrugged. “Tis the way of all highborns.”

“Regardless, I should have accepted Arya for who she is, not who I thought she should be,” Sansa whispers from his chest. “I will not make that mistake again. I am quite determined that should we meet again, I will make her an entire wardrobe of such garments. My gift to Brienne seemed like a good opportunity to practice my skills.”

“Good on you, little bird,” Sandor replies nonchalantly, though he is unable to suppress the small smile curls on his mouth as he turns away. “Brienne will like them well enough, I’ll wager. No doubt it’s been a long time since the wench has had anyone make her such a gift.”

“There was enough material left to make our baby a few outfits as well,” Sansa eagerly takes out several tiny gowns lined with fur. “Look!”

The sight suddenly chokes the hardened man with emotion, and forcing a smile, Sandor holds them up in front of him. “The lass will look as lovely as her mother in them, of that I’m certain.”

Smiling, Sansa raises her hand to his face, wiping away the wetness he did not realize showered his eyes. “Sandor, tell me truly: how is Lady Brienne? Elder brother demurs whenever I ask him and Jaime only shrugs and changes the subject.” Rolling her eyes, she shakes her head. “Never answer a question directly-such is the way of Lannisters.”

Sandor sensed Sansa has struggled with guilt ever since the battle came to the Quiet Isle. Sighing heavily, he takes her by the hand. “She is scarred fairly badly, wife. Not as bad as me, mind you, but she’ll need time to adjust.” Tipping her face up to him, he stares levelly into her eyes. “She is sworn to her duty, wife, and she did it well. It is not your fault she got injured, believe that.”

“But the battle would not have taken place if those men had not found us here,” Sansa frets the material in her hands. “They came for me because of Lord Baelish, and so many suffered because of it. It makes me sick to think of it.”

“No, little bird. Listen to me now: they would have come looking for you here regardless, and if Jaime, Brienne and I weren’t here, they would have razed the septry to the ground. Your bond with that she-wolf saved the brothers.”

“Do you think so, truly?”

“No opponent strikes fear in man like an enraged direwolf, lass. Her presence cut their raid short. You being her brought Jaime and Brienne, and with them the Lannister soldiers, too. Without them I daresay none of the brothers would have survived.”

Slowly she nods. “In my heart I know you are right, but I will feel better when we leave this place. The brothers have done so much for us; I don’t feel right staying here and putting them in harm’s way.”

“We’ll leave directly, once Brienne is fit to travel. I’ll check on her when I go see Elder McCann”

“You wish to wait until Brienne heals to leave?” Pausing, Sansa suspiciously eyes him. “That is most unlike you, Sandor.”

“Jealous, are you?” Suddenly angry, Sandor moves beside her. “So you take me for a fool, do you? Think I can’t see the wisdom in having more steel with us without hoping for a quick fuck, is that the way of it?”

“No, of course not.” Abashed, Sansa resumes folding Brienne’s garments. “It would not matter anyway if you did, for we are wed.”

“Damn it, Sansa, I made my vow to you, not because of some buggering religious ceremony, but because I love you. Whoever comes or goes in our life together doesn’t amount to shit, believe that, and no one can break our wedded bond but us.”

“Forgive me, Sandor; of course you are right. In truth I am a bit jealous of her. She has lovely eyes, and you both have so much in common and I am, well…” Sansa tearfully gestures to her growing figure. “Changing rather rapidly.”

Recalling Elder brother’s forewarning that it is common for women to become emotional during pregnancy, Sandor quickly cools his temper and kneels in front of her. Placing his large hands on her belly, Sandor stares deep into her eyes.

“You may feel different but you look beautiful, Sansa. I love you and you alone, wife. Even if you left me, either in death or for another, I will never take another.” His voice sounds eerily quiet, as Sandor is loath to even put such an unthinkable event to words. “I swear it on our marriage. I swear it on the pup growing inside of you that I will always be with you.”

Crying in earnest, Sansa hides her face in her pinafore. Perplexed, Sandor holds her close, the man at a loss how to comfort her. _I thought she would be comforted by my words, damn it; it seems I made it worse._ After a few moments, though, she pulls away. “I will never leave you, Sandor, you know that. We will be together in this life and the next, I swear it. I love you.”

Sansa kisses each of his cheeks and then dries her eyes. “So, your plan is that once Brienne is well, we will leave with Podrick and Jaime for the north?”

“Aye, Jaime and I have talked it over.” He eyes her closely, wondering if she will start to cry again. “We’ll be safer traveling together.”

“It will be safer for us, I must admit, though I do not relish travelling with a Lannister."

“You let me worry about him. Are you ready to visit Brienne?”

“Yes. Please help me with this cloak, will you?”

“I mean to leave you with her and Jaime while I speak to Elder McCann.” His large hands deftly weave the sash through the eyelets of her cloak as he speaks. “Shouldn’t be long. I’ll come to you as soon as I am done.”

Wordlessly she assents, kissing him on the mouth as he finishes wrapping her up. “Don’t be too long,” Sansa loops her arm through his as he guides her down the path.

* * *

After leaving Sansa with Brienne, Sandor makes careful surveillance of the beachfront while waiting for Elder McCann. By the water’s edge, he spies deep ursine imprints cutting a swath across the sand.

“Fuck,” Sandor curses under his breath. The marks are fresh. Warily he looks around for the greatbear before kneeling down for a closer look. Holding out his hands spanning the length of the track, he sees the paw print is huge, bigger than he has ever seen. The breadth of both hands barely covers the arch and heel of the animal’s track, with claw marks the length of his middle finger cutting deep gashes in the wet sand. Dismayed, he carefully sifts the sand through his fingers uncovers long black course fur. Inhaling deeply, Sandor scents the animal in the same manner Braeden taught him when he was a boy.

“No matter how big you are, bear, if you come around my cabin I’ll bury you, you buggering bastard,” Sandor growls loudly for good measure. Casting his gaze toward the women’s residences, he sees Jaime bringing the evening meal to Brienne and Sansa.

Pointing at the sand, he shouts, “Watch yourself, lion.”

Jaime stands frozen in mid stride. “You find more tracks, Hound?”

“Aye, big ones and fresh, too, all along the water line. I’ll lay out the trap out here tomorrow.”

“We should try it out on Brienne first. If it holds her, the bear should be no problem.” Jaime laughs awkwardly; beneath his usual swagger, Sandor recognizes apprehension in his tone. _You never were one for the hunt,_ Sandor thinks to himself. _And a lion is no match for a greatbear._

“You keep those women waiting on dinner and they’ll make a meal of _you_ , Lannister.”

“Go on about your business, Hound. What are you doing down there anyway? It’s nearly nightfall.”

“I can tell the time without you so bugger off. Go back to waiting on your woman and I’ll be back to fetch Sansa in a bit.”

“Watch out for that bear.” Jaime chuckles heartily while flashing a familiar obscene gesture Sandor’s way, earning a sharp laugh from Clegane before a deep rustling from the nearby brush catches his attention.

Instinctively Sandor’s hand reaches behind him for his longsword, his stomach sinking when he finds the place empty.


	55. Clearing the Air

Sandor and Sansa enter Brienne’s tiny cabin, which is warm and snug. Sandor is pleased his wife greets the scarred woman with a winning smile; unfortunately her expression quickly fades once her eyes fall on Jaime Lannister. “Leave us, please, Ser Jaime.” Her words sound more like a command than a request, reminding Sandor of her mother.

“Lady Sansa, I have something I wish to say,” Jaime begins, the man barely able to contain his irritation. “Hate me if you must, but we need to find a way to be around each other if we are to go north together.”

“Do not presume to tell me anything,” Sansa leans close to him. “I do hate you, Jaime Lannister. I cannot deny it, nor would I. I am a Clegane now, and no longer chirp for _any Lannister_.” Sansa’s voice is calm, cool and calculating. “I am trying to learn not to, though, for it is not the way of the gods.”

Sandor is both proud and shocked to hear her put her dark feelings to words.

“So like your mother. What else, Lady Clegane? Free yourself.” Jaime smirks, then quickly changes his demeanor when Sandor gruffly stands between them. “Regret not having the Hound kill me when you had the chance, my lady?”

Lady Brienne, alarmed, rises suddenly and steps between Jaime and Sansa.

“Do you doubt that Sandor would kill you this moment if I asked him to?” Sansa laughs mirthlessly and shakes her head. “But you need not worry, for it is not my way. _The one who gives the sentence should swing the sword._ I may need Sandor to help me, but if I wished you dead, I would be the one who would spill your blood, not him.”

His face twitching, Sandor stands in front of Sansa, anxiously gripping the hilt of his sword. “Stop this bloody nonsense. You’ll not upset my wife further, lion, believe that.”

“Sandor, please, I will speak for myself.”  Like the wolf she is, Sansa circles around Jaime, her eyes flashing angrily. “Do not speak to me of my mother-you know nothing about her! All you ever knew was the grief-stricken creature that you and your sister wrought when you crippled my brother and killed my father!”

“I knew the honorable wife of the equally honorable Ned Stark. And later I knew the mother of the so-called king in the north. Not the same woman, I assure you.” Jaime is sad, resigned, and so unlike the normally cocky kingslayer that Sandor hardly knows what to make of him.

For a moment a look of confusion blights her expression, while Sansa’s cheeks redden angrily. “Your son and your father took them both from me at the hands of those cowardly Freys. Do you believe you can hand me two bastardized swords forged from what once belonged to my father and say you would see me safe and that will make up for the Lannister’s atrocities?”

“Regretfully I cannot do any more, my lady. Brienne and I have come here at great peril to see you returned north, to see you safe, and I mean to see it through. I am a changed man, you’ll find. Let us have a new beginning or else go on hating me, it matters not. But I will see this thing through.”

“Enough!” Sandor roars, pulling Sansa closer to him. “This is not good for the pup, wife; you must calm yourself.” Instinctively he runs his hand over her belly, and Sansa leans into his touch.

“If you hate me so, Lady Sansa, why _haven’t_ you had Clegane kill me? Curious. He wouldn’t hesitate, you know.”

“And why should I allow _you_ to dictate the behavior of yet another member of my family? Sandor is the Hound no longer, and for all your goading, you will not make me bring it out in him.”

Brienne uneasily glances between them, and then at Sandor. “My lady, might I suggest asking Ser Jaime any questions that you have; perhaps such will ease your mind.”

Both Sansa and Jaime turn to her in disbelief, their mirroring expressions earning a sharp laugh from Sandor.

Setting her jaw, Sansa swallows hard before speaking. “As you say, Lady Brienne. Ser Jaime, tell me truly: why did my brother not kill you after he took you captive? Why did he hold you for so long?”

“Your brother held me for killing a Karstark when I tried to escape his camp.”

“Tyrion swore he would trade me and Arya for your release in open court; Bronn, your brother’s man, told us about it. Why did Robb not do so?”

“When did you see Bronn?” Jaime turns to Brienne.

“Do not look at me. I have no idea.”

“That is of no importance now,” Sansa interrupts. “Answer me.”

Sighing, Jaime and Brienne exchange glances once more  before the woman replies, “My lady, your brother would not consent to trading Jaime for you and your sister. Your mother begged him but he resolutely refused. I know it must be hard to hear but I heard the king myself. I am so very sorry.”

Sandor reaches around Sansa and holds her against his chest. “I feared as much,” she weakly replies. “Sandor, oh, how can this be?”

“It is the way of war, lass. It changes all men.”

“My lady, it very nearly drove your mother to madness, so deep was her grief at the loss of you and your younger siblings.  She released Jaime to me in order to secure you and Arya from Lord Tyrion on her own, no matter the consequence.”

“I see,” Sansa sits down on the chair beside the bed. “And why did Robb not feed you?”  More quietly, she adds, “Why did he abuse you?”

Raising his brow, Jaime glances at Sandor, who shrugs in return. Jaime gapes at her, puzzled, until she adds, “I can see that you are nowhere near the size you were when you stayed at Winterfell. And considering you travelled with Lady Brienne back to King’s Landing and now here, the man I see before me has recovered considerably from when you were held in Riverrun. Am I correct?”

Jaime slumps down on the bed. “Yes.”

“Tell me: what did they do to you?” Sansa kneels down to look Jaime in the eyes.

“Your Uncle Edmure rationed my meals, such as they were, and kept me in a dungeon as punishment for trying to escape as I said.”

Brienne adds, “He speaks the truth, my lady.”

“They starved you, more like.” Drawing a deep breath, Sansa shakes her head. “No wonder Robb lost.”

Sandor tips her face up to his. “And what do you mean by that, little bird?”

“Robb angered the old gods, of that I am certain-such is not our way!” Sansa wrings her hands. “It is not the way of the north, the starving of prisoners and the holding of hostages! There is swift justice. It is what makes us different than the rest of the seven kingdoms.” Turning toward Jaime, she brokenly whispers, “If my father had taken you captive, Ser Jaime, he would have tried and executed you, not abused you in such a manner. I am ashamed.”

“I know your father would not have done so,” Jaime says quietly. “At one time I would have mocked his honor, but no more. Though your mother had taken Tyrion, if I had been in King’s Landing, I would have done what I could to see that he was not killed.”

Sandor smooths his hand down her back soothingly. “You believe the old gods punished your kin?”

“I do not know; it certainly seems possible in light of this. Perhaps that is why father did not stop it.”

Sandor pulls her close and runs his hands through her hair. “No more such talk.”

Hesitantly Jaime steps forward. “I know you believe a man can change,  Lady Sansa, else you would not have married Clegane here.”

“Yes, I do.  And I admit that I find you a far different man than the one who rode into Winterfell, Ser Jaime. You have saved me and my husband, and for that I am grateful.”

“Then where do we go from here, my lady?” Jaime softly asks. “Will you have justice or mercy?”

After gazing long and hard into Sandor’s eyes, Sansa quietly answers, “Mercy, I suppose. It is the only way we can get along, though it gives me no pleasure to admit it. It is the only way for all of us to survive the winter.”

Jaime kneels before Sansa and extends his hand. “Let us both leave the past behind us for the each of our sakes. What say you?”

With a small sad smile, Sansa nods and accepts his offering.

Pleased, Jaime rises to his feet, the man seemingly relieved by her words. “Well then, I am off to find Brienne something to eat. Why don’t those bloody holy men provide chamber service?”

“I must go as well, Sansa,” Sandor kisses her softly. “I’ll return shortly.”

Once the men leave, Sansa sheepishly sits down beside the bed. “Pray forgive me, Lady Brienne; it was rude of me to speak to Jaime in such a way in your quarters.”

Brienne smiles broadly. “You truly are your mother’s daughter, Lady Sansa. Think nothing of it; I heard your own lady mother say worse to him.”

A small giggle slips out of Sansa’s mouth. Brienne moves closer to her and shares in her laughter.

“Thank you, you are most gracious. It is a great relief to see you looking so well, my dear Lady Brienne. I have brought you a gift."

Clearly startled, Brienne stares at her levelly. “Thank you; you are too kind. If it please you, Lady Stark-forgive me, Lady Clegane- Brienne’s enough. I am no lady.” 

Moved, her request recalls Arya.  Sansa reaches out and lays her hand on Brienne’s, patting it gently. “Then please, you would do me a great favor if you would call me Sansa. Please, open it. I hope it fits!”

Brienne carefully unwraps the new garments, gasping softly as she does so. "They are the finest clothes I have ever owned, my lady, truly. Forgive me but I am most surprised you made breeches for me."

"It suits you far better than any stuffy gown, my lady. And the color goes beautifully with your eyes."

Teary eyed, Brienne clears her throat and turns away. "You do me a great honor in making these and I will wear them proudly."

“I am so pleased!" Sansa clasps her hands excitedly. "You and I, we were raised in a society where we were taught what determines a lady are her clothes, that words serve as her amour. I am ashamed to say I once believed in all of those things with all my heart. But I think it is our shared experience that a true lady’s worth lies in what she knows and how she treats others, is that no so?”

“Yes,” Brienne offers a small smile. “Your mother was a great lady in all respects. A day does not go by when I do not think of her.”

“She was indeed; thank you for saying so. I miss her very much. ”

“As do I but in a different way, of course, than a daughter misses a mother. Serving her had a great impact on me,” Brienne speaks quietly. “Lady Catelyn was a very different sort of lady and always treated me as an equal, as a friend, even, though I was sworn to her service.”

Sansa nods eagerly, remembering her mother’s uncanny way of simultaneously keeping those in service in their places and yet treating them as a member of the household. “I must say it is very comforting to be able to share memories of her with someone; Sandor only vaguely remembers her from King's Landing. I am certain you reminded her of my sister, Arya. She would love to meet you, for she had begun her training as a Braavosi water dancer and would like nothing more than to become a knight.”

A pained expression crosses Brienne's scarred face; standing, she looks out the window. “It is far more difficult that she might expect.”

“My father tried to tell her as much but young as she was, she did not understand his meaning.”

“Your mother spoke of her antics often.” Turning to Sansa, Brienne kneels before her. “Though I know all too well how annoying Jaime can be, I must tell you Lady Sansa that your mother’s memory has great impact on him as well.”

Sansa bristles slightly once more, still smarting from her exchange with Jaime. “Yes, I am certain it does, considering how my brother and uncle treated him.”

“Jaime suffered as a prisoner of your brother, yes, but he is a Lannister, after all.  Your mother had a woman’s sort of courage, and I can see the same in you as well. What impressed Jaime most was her devotion to you and your siblings,” Brienne leans in closer. “That is why we have come here to see you safely north.”

Sansa nods, her eyes filling with tears.

“If I may be blunt my lady: during your imprisonment I am certain you must have felt forgotten, abandoned, by your family-is that not so?”

Sansa’s words catch in her throat and so she nods once more.

“You were never far from your mother’s thoughts, Sansa, you or your sister, you must believe me. Finding you was her first and foremost thought, always.”

“But not that of my kingly brother,” Sansa whispers without thinking. “He only thought of himself and his war. He lost his way as a northerner and forgot the old gods.”

Shrugging, Brienne looks away. “I cannot speak for him, my lady, nor would I presume to do so. I was sworn to Lady Stark, and I vowed to find you and your sister. In truth, I was never around the king very much, for soon your mother entrusted me with returning Jaime to King’s Landing to secure your release.”

Unable to suppress her emotions any longer, Sansa begins to quietly cry into her handkerchief. Awkwardly Brienne reaches out to her and the two women embrace, each lost in their shared grief for Lady Stark.

"Brienne!" Jaime's voice sharply breaks through the stillness. "Bring your bow, quick!"

* * *

Over the years Sandor had imagined his death in many ways, usually at the hands of Gregor in a final battle to the death. At times the vision changed. Often he thought perhaps death would come in the form of an angry young man eager to prove himself by putting a sword through his bowels one night in some flea ridden winesink.

If a coward like the archer Anguy took him, then it would be an arrow through the heart while he rode Stranger through the Riverlands. During his periods of heavy drink, Sandor often laughed ruefully as he pictured himself falling in a ditch and breaking his bloody neck. Mayhaps he would die in some redheaded whore’s bed or, worse yet, pass out and choke on his own vomit. Never in his wildest dreams did Sandor Clegane imagine that he would die with at the jaws of a greatbear.

The animal circles him warily, grunting softly. _Odd behavior for a big game predator_. Without turning his back on the bear, Sandor backs toward the water. _If I only could reach down for the hunting knife in my boot. I’ll not escape without injury but if I could get him in the jugular…_

For now, Sandor knows it would be folly to crouch down; he cannot risk appearing smaller to the huge predator, and instead the man raises his hands over his head. “Go on, then, show me what you’ve got! Get on with it, if you mean to make a meal of me!”

“Clegane,” Brienne calls out to him. Sandor casts a glance in the direction of the bungalows to see the woman notching an arrow into her long bow. “Can you swim?”

“Aye, of course I can bloody well swim.” Jaime slips past her into the brush brandishing two lances. “Hold tight, Hound, I’m on the way.”

“Hurry up then.”

“Slowly head into the deeper water,” Brienne commands while steadily toward the bear.

Whirling about, the animal disappears into the nearby brush.

“Lion, don’t let him get away! We’ve chuffed him off and now he’ll make for the residences! Brienne, we’ll flush him out of the brush so you have a clear shot.”

Brandishing the lances, Jaime and Sandor give chase, both men knowing it a foolhardy course. The animal runs with a speed Sandor did not know such a huge creature possessed, delving deeper into the briars surrounding the lichyard and taking refuge there.

“He certainly doesn’t behave like any predator I’ve ever seen,” Jaime remarks with a frown.

“Aye, truer words.” Sandor grunts.

Suddenly a great rustling comes from deep into the underbrush and then just as quickly, a deathly stillness.

Both men warily move towards the shrubbery. “What the fuck?” Sandor swears low, lowering his lance as his eyes fall on Elder McCann, covered in filth among the dead leaves.

“Well, this is one to add to the books.” Jaime whistles low. Sandor merely grunts and offers him a hand. “Hound, it would appear the holy brother has some explaining to do.”

“Aye, that he does.”

Hastily Brienne picks her way through the dense greenery toward them. “What is it? Where is the animal? What happened?”

“I am _not_ an animal, Lady Brienne,” Elder McCann scrambles to cover himself. “I am a skin changer.”

“A what?”

“A skin changer.  It is a gift of the old gods.”

“Similar to what the men said about Robb Stark.”

“That he could turn into a wolf?”

“Yes, I’ll explain it later,” Jaime arches his brow at her. Brienne nods, her lovely blue eyes widening in disbelief.

“Please, come no closer, as I am unclothed.”

“What the fuck were you doing out here?” Sandor snarls, taking off his tunic and handing it to the man.

Blushing deeply, Brienne turns away and goes back toward the cabins, passing Elder brother along the way.

“Here comes your friend.” Jaime smirks at Sandor.

“Sandor, Ser Jaime, it seems you have discovered the truth on your own. Brother McCann is in a skin changer.”

Glancing at Sandor, Jaime shakes his head. “I heard the Mormont women carry this ability. I’ve never see it personally, and I know of no man with it-not even Robb Stark.”

“Plenty of them do north of the Wall, I hear,” Sandor mutters. “You part Mormont?”

“Aye, Ser Jorah of House Mormont is my kin, my father in fact. I am not a true heir, but base born.”

Throwing his head back, Jaime laughs long and hard. “So Jorah and a Wilding made a baby? What would the old bear say to that?”

Sandor, however, is not amused in the least. All this time he has allowed a man with this impressive yet exceedingly dangerous ability to treat the little bird, to be in her company privately. The truth is, the holy man could have easily killed her and him as well, and the danger slipped past him. “And why did you hide such a thing, if  this indeed is a ‘gift of the gods’ as you say? Ashamed, are you?” Leaning down, he grabs Elder McCann and yanks him towards him, then raises his blade to the man’s throat. "Answer me."

“No, my lord,” he stammers, clearly frightened. “it is only that-“

“Sandor,” Elder brother interrupts softly, “it is more than frowned upon by the Faith. He came here to learn to control the tendency but to no avail. Elder McCann could be excommunicated for it.”

“And yet they would keep my brother; that’s bloody rich.”

Jaime shrugs. “People fear what they do not understand. Look at the Targaryens.”

Grunting, Sandor nods knowingly and settles the young man on his feet. “I’m not a religious man; you should have told me. I wouldn’t have revealed you; bloody hells.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but your wife is most devoted, as was her lady mother. It was widely known all over the north. I had no idea how she would react to such news. Once I realized Lady Sansa also had a form of the gift, I arranged to meet with you here in private so I could tell you about my true nature.”

All this talk of religion, skin changing and the like leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Snorting, Sandor spits on the ground. “What the fuck were you doing skulking about as a bear?”

“Since the attack on the septry, I have taken to patrolling the shoreline each evening. In my other form I can smell the odor of men for miles, run faster, hear better,” Elder McCann nervously bites his lip, “and, of course, fight much better. I could keep you and your group safe.”

Sandor let out a harsh laugh. “That’s an understatement if I ever heard it.” Turning to Elder McCann, he adds, “What are you going to do with him now?”

“It seems to be the maneuvering of the gods that brought Elder McCann to you and Lady Sansa. Perhaps it would be best if he accompanied you on your journey north. He could instruct her, guide her, and look after her as she carries the child to delivery. And you could hardly have more protection in anyone; that is for certain.”

“That was my intention in revealing myself to you, my lord. I wish to go with you, to help and protect Lady Sansa. She has the blood of the First Men in her veins, and as a northerner; it is my duty. The old gods have led me to Winterfell’s daughter, you must believe that.”

“No,” Sandor immediately answers. He doesn’t need anyone telling him what is best for he and the little bird. “We’ll do fine on our own. It’s bad enough to have a lion and a wench-why the fuck would I add a greatbear to the company?” Shaking his head, Sandor runs his hands over his face. “What a travelling show we make.”

“Now wait a minute, Clegane,” Jaime holds up his hand. “Think on it a moment.”

Snarling, Sandor jerks his head. “Get your paw out of my face, lion, if you mean to keep it.”

“You can protect Sansa well enough from outlaws, it is true, but not from the dangerous of travelling with child. You have your wife to think about, not your own foolish vanity. It would be far better to have a maester with her and you know it, so quit being such a stubborn fool.”

“It is the truth, Sandor, please consider it.” Elder brother places a hand on his shoulder. “Think on it, please, for the sake of your sweet babe.”

 _My babe and Sansa’s. Our child, our sweet Catya._ Sansa had whispered the child’s name in her sleep, and when Sandor asked her about it, she sheepishly admitted it was their child to which she was referring in her sleep, that she had another dream of the red haired, gray eyed babe in their mysterious keep in the snow. Since that night, he has taken to calling the pup by the name. Gritting his teeth, Sandor slowly assents. “You’re ready to give up the Seven and your vows for my Sansa?”

“Yes, my lord.” Elder McCann says assuredly. “I will tend to her health and guard her with my life. I swear it on the old gods and the new.”

 Sandor’s harsh gaze bores into the young septon, who stares back unflinchingly. Satisfied, Sandor pats his shoulder. “Aye, you’ll come with us, McCann.”


	56. The Wolf and the Bear

After Elder McCann dresses, Sandor and Jaime escort him to Brienne’s cabin. Sansa stands at the door watching their approach curiously. “Did you kill the bear?” She grasps her husband by the tunic while looking him over with care. “Sandor, it sounded as though you cornered the creature but then I did not hear any more noise.” Her eyes fall to Elder McCann’s disheveled appearance. “Are you alright? Did the bear chase you?”

Lady Brienne shakes her head. After an uncomfortable pause, Jaime laughs sharply and pats the man on the back. “Well, what say you? The Lady Sansa asked you a question.”

Rolling her eyes, Brienne thoughtfully returns her arrows to the quiver. “Jaime, please, do not draw this out.”

Confused, Sansa allows Sandor to lead her to a nearby chair. “Sit down lass.” Sandor then sits down beside her, placing his hand on her belly protectively. “Speak up, man. My wife asked you a question and she deserves an answer.”

“ _I_ am the bear, Lady Sansa,” Elder brother quietly admits, averting his eyes from Sansa’s stunned face. “I told you earlier that I am a skinchanger. Earlier I transformed to scout the waterfront for intruders. I have done so every night since the battle.”

Sansa silently gapes at him. Her attitude amuses Sandor; for once even the little bird is rendered speechless. Finally composing herself, Sansa straightens up in her chair, though she grips Sandor’s hand tightly as she speaks. “How long have you been able to do such?”

“Since adolescence. The gift makes itself known a few years before puberty, I’ve found.”

“Do you know others like yourself?”

“Yes, many from my house are such,” the young man pauses uneasily. “I tried to avoid my true nature for many years. Living among the Free folk, though, it was not considered an aberration, as it is in the south. Even north of the Wall, my ability was considered mystical and fearsome; some men even sought to test their battle skills by challenging me in my animal form. It was most unpleasant.”

“I cannot imagine why they would treat you in such a manner,” Sansa frowns at Sandor. “I have heard it said that many Wilding scouts are able to see through the eyes of crows or wolves. My own brother had such dreams.”

“Aye, you speak truly, my lady, but that is not viewed the same as physically transforming into an animal as fierce as the greatbear.”

Sansa leans in. “Where you shunned?”

“In a manner of speaking; yes. The chieftain wanted to chain me to a stake at night but my mother challenged him to a trial by combat and won; thereafter no one suggested such a measure again.”

“Your mother was very brave,” Brienne comments softly. “If I was blessed with a son, I would do the same.”

“Aye,” Sandor agrees. “No one best even suggest such a thing for one of our pups.”

Distraught, Sansa begins anxiously rubbing her belly. “It makes me worry for my sister and brothers as well as our children, Sandor. Even if we go north, it will not ensure they will be treated as normal.”

“This will,” Sandor pats his long sword. “Anyone does anything I don’t much like to you, the pup or the rest of our kin, I’ll cut them in half, you best believe.”

Sansa lets out a shaky sigh, avoiding the curious stare Jaime is giving her.

Elder McCann smiles sadly. “My mother told me to embrace the gift, ignore the clan’s intolerance, but I could not. I even ran away from the north and came to the Faith of the Seven to try to learn to control it but to no avail.”

Gritting his teeth, Sandor seethes with rage at the young man’s words, the man knowing all too well what it is to try to outrun the ignorance of others.

Beside him, Sansa shakes her head despondently, and seemingly sensing his mood, rests her hand on his arm. “I am so very sorry that you went through that. Unfortunately Sandor and I both have experience in this area as well. When my family returns to Winterfell, I will see to it that such prejudice is not tolerated.”

Sandor and Jaime both snort in unison. “What? Is something about that funny to the two of you?” Sansa turned sharply toward them, her deep blue eyes blazing angrily. “I mean to keep my word as a Stark. You can either help me make it so or step aside, one!”

“I will help you, Lady Sansa,” Brienne answers quietly; by the expression on her face, Sandor recognizes that like him, she has endured a lifetime of abusive treatment, both verbal and physical. No doubt it is the reason she learned to fight, the same as he, and Sandor feels kinship with the woman.

“Little bird, you are still so very idealistic,” Sandor smirks, ignoring her indignation, his anger rising at her unwillingness to accept reality. “You cannot control people’s prejudices, Stark or not.”

Bristling, Sansa’s cheeks turn deep red. “I can and I will! Laugh all you want but I will not be dissuaded.”

Grinning, Jaime holds up his hands. “Forgive me, my lady, but Sandor speaks truly. I’ve been all over the Seven kingdoms; people are still unable to accept a bastard, let alone a skin changer. Lady Brienne here can attest to people’s propensity for cruelty and narrow mindedness,” Casting an apologetic look her way, he adds, “and since losing my hand, so can I.”

“Then it is high time things changed,” Sansa insists, glaring at them. “If the common people and high born alike are this way, it is only because they have been allowed to carry on such wickedness unchallenged.”

“And who would care if someone did challenge it?” Sandor asks, not ungently. “Little bird, think on it; people who are apt to behave like this don’t give a fuck who they offend.”

“Say what you will but I will not have it. In private, what people say is their own business of course. However, the days of northerners seeking refuge from harassment will come to an end once my people are back in Winterfell. I will not have Bran mistreated for his gift, or Arya.” Sansa takes him by the hand. “What of our children?”

“And what of _your_ gift, my lady?” Jaime steps closer to her. “How do you think the northerners will view it?”

“I do not know,” Sansa absently rubs her belly. “I will see when we return there. I do know this: northerners are not burdened by the peculiarities of the Seven.”

“Alright,” Jaime folds his arms, “let’s just say for the sake of argument that all goes well. What will you do with your ability then?”

“What do you mean?” Sansa knits her brows in confusion.

Brienne glances uneasily between Jaime and Sandor. “Ser Jaime, my lady appears tired-“

Jaime waves her off. “The Starks aren’t the only family in Westeros with mystical abilities. Daenerys Targaryen is raising an army with her dragons; shall you do the same with whatever direwolves are left?”

Pausing, Sansa stares out the window as if lost in thought. Squeezing Sandor’s hand, she answers firmly, “I will use it to protect my family and my people, nothing more. Only Lady and Greywind have gone to the afterlife; Summer, Ghost and Shaggydog all live, and Nymeria has amassed her own pack.”

“Do you not wish to take back Winterfell from the Boltons?” Jaime quizzically stares at her, his green eyes glittering as he does so. “Will you not avenge your family and exterminate the Freys and their allies? That isn’t very _Stark_ of you, I must say.”

“And what would you know of us, Ser Jaime?" She hisses at him. “Laugh all you want, but our way is the old way. Winterfell is Bran and Rickon’s by right; I will do all that is in my power to see them restored, but I have no interest in the game of thrones. I only want my husband, our children, and a peaceful life.” Sansa’s voice breaks at the last words. “Is that too much to ask?”

Scowling at Jaime, Sandor wipes away her tears with the back of his index finger. “No Little bird; that is everything. We’ll have it in due time.”

Jaime moves closer. “Sansa, duty is in your blood. You Starks cannot help yourselves. As the eldest surviving member of House Stark-“

“That’s enough!” Sandor snarls at Jaime, knocking over his chair in his haste. “If you think agreeing to help us entitles you to spew your buggering opinions every time you open your fucking mouth, you best think again. We’re leaving, wife.” Hastily he helps Sansa to her feet.

“Clegane I was merely-“

 “You were out of line, lion,” Sandor unsheathes his fighting knife. “And the next time you speak to my wife in such a way, I’ll cut your tongue out.”

"Clegane,” Brienne intercedes, “please, calm yourself.  Jaime, this bond between them makes Sandor especially sensitive to Lady Sansa’s distress.”

“Wench, you don’t know me if you think I need some bloody bond to tell me when my wife is uncomfortable.” Stepping forward, he stares right into her face. “No man will tolerate such when his wife is in a delicate condition; you know that.”

Jaime snaps his eyes toward him “What does that mean, exactly?”

“It means that you should not speak of such things with Lady Sansa while she is still fragile.” As Brienne speaks, she carefully positions herself between Jaime and Sandor.

“No right hand, no tongue-is that the way you want to be, Kingslayer?” Sandor runs the blade along his mailed arm with a chuckle. “I can arrange that. Cersei will have no use for you at all, though.”

“I’d like to see you try it.” Jaime steps closer to Sandor, eying him warily.

“Ser Jaime, I think this conversation is better served between Sandor and me and is best kept in private.”  Sansa steps in between the men while placing her hand on her husband’s wrist. “Please, Sandor, let us go now.”

* * *

When they return to the cabin, Sansa lets out an exasperated sigh as she settles herself carefully on the bed. Elder McCann soon follows them inside with chamomile tea and hot stones.

“These are for your back, my lady,” he smiles at her, placing them under the covers. “It will soothe the ache. The tea will calm you.”

Smiling wanly, Sansa nods. “Thank you.” After carefully sipping the hot liquid, she continues. “You must forgive my rudeness earlier. I was taken aback by your gift; it is both fearsome and quite fantastic.”

“Indeed it is, my lady,” Elder McCann nods. “Do not fret on my account. Truth be told, yours is the least offensive reaction I have received. I’ll teach you to manage it as soon as you feel ready.”

While Sandor surveys the exchange closely, his tumultuous thoughts get the better of him. “Not before the pup is born, Sansa.”

“But Sandor-“

“No, gods be damned!” He slams his fist on the table; more calmly Sandor adds, “Little bird, please, think of the babe. We don’t know what effect this will have on her.”

Sighing she nods. “You are right. I will not try beforehand.”

Turning to the young man, Sandor rasps, “Swear to me on your gods that you will protect Sansa with your gift,” he grips Elder McCann suddenly by the shoulders. “My wife and the pup together. Swear it on your gods, holy man, or be gone.”

“Perhaps you are unaware of our shared history, my lord and lady. King Rodrik Stark won Bear Island in a wrestling match with a king from the Iron Islands and then gave it to the Mormonts, the house of my sire.”

Nodding softly, Sansa moves beside Sandor. “My father taught us that story from childhood. However, your surname is McCann; I beg pardon but how did you come to that?”

Elder McCann smiles. “McCann is the surname of my mother’s father. There are no bastards born north of the Wall, my lady, for Free Folk do not observe the customs or moral laws of the Seven kingdoms.”

Blushing, Sansa looks down. “I see; I wish my brother had the benefit of growing up without the stigma of being a bastard.”

“You speak of the brother surnamed Snow.”

“Yes, dearest Jon.” Sansa swallows hard.

“Then you understand.”

“Yes,” she stares at her hands. “and I am ashamed to say I have also participated in promoting such ignorant ideas.”

“It matters not, my lady.”

“You were saying?” Sandor impatiently barks.

“Oh yes,” Elder McCann clears his throat. “When we were hounded from our homes and in peril of our lives, the wolves took us in and fed us. The Starks have always protected us against our enemies. In return, we will always be Stark men. The North remembers, my lord and lady.”  

Kneeling before Clegane, Elder McCann cautiously places his hands on the pommel of his sword. “On the old gods and the new, I swear to protect Lady Sansa of House Stark, her and the child she carries, with all the strength and ability the old gods have seen to bestow upon me and with my own life if need be.”

Sandor’s eyes narrow as he watches the man, uncertain still as to whether or not he should be trusted, but Sansa readily places her hand over Elder McCann’s on the pommel. “Arise, Elder McCann.”

Snorting softly, Sandor shakes his head. “You’ve always wanted to say that, haven’t you?”

Shrugging, Sansa smiles sheepishly at him. “I have faith in him, Sandor, and in the old gods. The bond of the Northern families is unbreakable; it is how we have managed to survive the long winters. If Elder McCann wanted us dead, he has certainly had more than enough opportunity to do so.”

Grunting, Sandor warily agrees. “Enough with this, then; on your feet, man. We will make preparations and leave in three days.”

“Very good, my lord,” Elder McCann bows before leaving the room. “I will see to it at once.”

“And no more of that ‘lord’ shit, either,” Sandor calls out after him. “I’m no Ser. Call me Clegane; nothing more.”

When Sandor ducks back inside, Sansa shakes her head reprovingly. “Must you shout your swear words out the door? We are in a holy place, after all.”

“Bugger that, little bird,” he pulls her close. Sansa smells of wildflowers and lemon, and softly Sandor nuzzles into her neck until she giggles. “About what the lion said earlier-“

“Insufferable man!” Sansa’s cheeks flush red. “I was foolish for even trying to explain northern matters to him. Such is for northerners, not the likes of Lannisters.”

“So that’s the way of it, lass? Have you forgotten that I am not a northerner?” Sandor needles her. “I’m a Westermen, born and raised two days’ ride from Casterly Rock myself; might be it’s not for me either.”

Raising her brow, Sansa snickers. “You are married to me, so you are a northerner by marriage. How does that suit you?”

“No need to suit me. I may never want to stay there; ever thought of that?” Sandor tips her chin up to him. “I’ll see you north, see you safe and your home restored to you, but I’ll make no promises about staying in that frozen waste the rest of our bloody lives.”

Gently Sansa cups his face in both hands. “I already have far more than I ever expected to receive in of this life, Sandor. I will gladly follow you wherever you may roam.”

Knitting his brows, Sandor gazes into her eyes, the man searching for hints of deception and regret, and is dually pleased when he finds neither in Sansa’s gaze; instead she seems positively contented. “You won’t want to live in that bloody granite castle you Starks call home?”

“Home is where you are, Sandor, you and our children. It is no longer a place, but a feeling.” She rests her hand over his heart. “Can you not feel it too?”

“Yes,” Sandor admits, lowering his gaze and his hands to her belly and reverently rubbing the roundness that is their unborn child. There is no point in the man denying it, for he knows the little bird senses his emotions as he does hers. ”I do.”

Suddenly he feels as though he has been doused with cold water; Sandor raises his eyes to his wife once more. “Regret that we are leaving, are you?” He rasps softly and tucks and strand of hair behind her ear.

“Yes and no,” Sansa quietly admits, twirling her sash. “We were wed a second time here, and we had a measure of peace and happiness that neither of us have experienced in ever so long.”

“Aye, true, but it was short lived at that.”

Sighing, Sansa nods. “Yes. It seems we will never be able to just enjoy being married and having our family; as though we will always have something or someone on our backs.”

Discerning the meaning behind her words, Sandor guides Sansa’s face up to his and stares into her lovely blue eyes for several long moments. _The little bird just wants a place to nest and raise her family._ It is natural, he knows, and so he refrains from teasing her. “One day, lass; one day we’ll get there.”

Casting her eyes downward, Sansa shakes her head. “No, Sandor, I fear it will never be.”

Sansa’s deep melancholy weighs heavily in his heart. “It will be, wife, if it means fighting every buggering bastard on the way north.” Snador snarls low, taking her in his arms. “Our children will not live as we have.”

“How difficult of a trip do you think it will be north, love?” Sansa weakly asks while wringing her hands.

His wife has given voice to the very thing Sandor has worried about ever since Jaime told him of his plan to return Sansa to the north; he knows she needs reassurance but lying to her is out of the question. “I don’t know, Sansa,” Sandor answers truthfully while running his hand over his face. “I just don’t know.”


	57. Leaving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I have a schedule to allow me to post twice a month. I hope you enjoy this update. :D

Sunlight begins to move across the room, its rays catching her deep auburn hair and setting it aflame. Sighing, Sandor turns over, pulling Sansa tightly against his chest as he does so. In the light of early morning, Sansa looks every bit the very young woman that she is.

Lost in peaceful dreams, her face exudes the youth and innocence of her short life as she sleeps, the qualities that had attracted him to her from the moment he first laid eyes on her at Winterfell. Still, Sandor’s conscience is piqued by it as well; for all of her womanly ways, he cannot deny his wife is just out of girlhood, really. Barely old enough by Westerosi standards to be wedded and bedded. But he had taken her just the same; taken her from King’s Landing, taken her for himself, taken her maidenhood, and with it, her virtue.

He had gone from the dog sniffing at her heels to the man who shared her bed. Sighing, Sandor gently brushes away the hair from Sansa’s face. He has never felt so much for a woman, not even the camp follower he once kept for a moon’s turn. With the return of Jaime Lannister, Sandor dreads that Sansa will learn more about his past than he cares to share. He is weak for her, he cannot deny it; in many ways he still very much the dog that begs for her affection. Greedily he had taken her three times the night before, so hungry he was for her, and she had returned his passions wholly.

Never had Sandor gotten a woman pregnant; he had always ended their trysts by making his consorts drink moon tea and sent them packing with more herbs still. _Why the fuck did I get her pregnant?_ He asks himself for the thousandth time since Elder brother’s diagnosis. _She’s so young still; she’s got her whole life ahead of her. Bloody selfish bastard; you just couldn’t control yourself. What if you lose her in childbed?_ Not for the first time, his fear and guilt twist like a knife in his gut, and instinctively Sandor’s eyes scan the room for a flask as he continues berating himself.

Of course there is none; Sandor knows that, he threw it out himself; yet he persists just the same, a force of habit lingering from his sickness. Elder brother told him such would happen in times of distress and instructed him to recite the reasons he no longer drinks aloud as a way to cope. So, though it makes Sandor feel like a foolish bastard, he grudgingly rasps, “I won’t drink wine, little bird, because I want to be the man you deserve. I don’t want to hurt you or the pup, or too weak to protect either of you, physically or otherwise. I want to be different. I want better for you and the babe, and for myself as well.” Elder brother had also told him he had to stay sober for himself first, and after a lifetime spent denying his own hopes and dreams, Sandor still finds it difficult to do.

At the sound of his soft declaration, Sansa stirs under the furs. “My love, what is it?” She asks, her eyes struggling to focus on his face in the low light. Pulling back the furs, she moves toward him. His wife is still nude from the previous night’s lovemaking, and yet she does not cover herself. Pulling him close, Sansa then settles on his lap, stifling a yawn as she does so. “What troubles you? Tell me.”

“Never mind my foolishness,” Sandor grumbles irritably while laying her back down among the coverlets. Sansa looks as though she is about to protest, until Sandor rests his head on the swell of her belly. “I’m thinking of our future, of the pup.” He whispers against her skin while stroking the gentle curve of her navel and her rounded hips.

Since she let out her gowns to adopt the style Brienne had shown her from the Sapphire Isle, her pregnancy is barely noticeable, but when nude, her body is a wonder to him. Sandor enjoys taking every opportunity to revel in the changes in Sansa’s body, and so tenderly he kisses her belly, their _future_.

“How can you stand to look at me when I am as big as a house?” She murmurs while lightly scratching her nails over his scalp. “It is a wonder that you still want me.”

“What in seven hells are you going on about?” Anger surges hot though him. “Stop with that bloody nonsense, will you?” Sandor growls at her. “I took you three times last night; how can you even say such a foolish thing? You are as a little mother should be and too pretty for your own good besides.”

“You don’t find me unpleasant to look upon?” Sansa hesitates while twirling a lock of his hair around her finger. Grunting, he raises up and grips her chin, staring levelly into her eyes as he does so. Within her deep blue gaze Sandor sees doubt, fear and uncertainty.

Shame clouds Sansa’s face and she tries to look away, but Sandor holds firm. Suddenly Sandor’s anger gives way to understanding, as Sansa’s continuous need for reassurance recalls Elder brother’s warning that Sansa might need extra consideration, but admittedly, Sandor did not know what he meant at the time. “No, damn it,” his soft tone belying the coarseness of his words. “I already told you I enjoy looking at you. I enjoy fucking you as well. What is this about?”

Twisting the blanket, Sansa quietly says, “My septa said men often no longer desire their wives as they grow heavy with child. Some even seek other women and such is to be expected. I fear that is what happened with my father-perhaps that is why he sought out the woman who brought forth Jon.”

He remembers the early days of Cersei’s pregnancy with Joffrey, and she had been the same way. Many times he heard the queen make similar leading remarks, but Robert never reassured her; instead, he reminded her that her only duty was to produce heirs and called her a cow and assorted other names by turns. The king would then openly entertain whores and highborn women alike right in front of her, much to Jaime’s distress.

His behavior towards Cersei puzzled Sandor; the man seeming to revel in his wife’s misery. He had wondered at the time why any man, let alone a king, would keep a woman who annoyed him the way Cersei obviously did Robert. And one look at the fury in Jaime’s eyes made Sandor believe that if Robert didn’t shut his mouth, a second king on the Iron Throne would end up slain by the golden knight’s hand.

Though much about Sansa’s behavior still mystifies him, Sandor is determined not to follow Robert’s example. With an emphatic shake of his head, Sandor swallows his annoyance and replies, “You growing with our child is not unpleasant. What’s unpleasant is you saying such. I’ll hear no more of it.” Cupping her face in his large hands, he adds, “And I don’t give seven fucking hells about what your septa said.”

“Why do you suppose Father was unfaithful to Mother, then, if not for his distaste in her changing appearance?”

She is looking at him with such openness that for a moment Sandor wonders if she would understand bloodlust, the fear and surge of energy from battle that only a woman can sate, that her father was like all men in this respect.

Long ago on the trek with Robert’s host to Winterfell, Sandor heard Jaime and Tyrion both remark that Ned was far too honorable to cheat on his wife, let alone produce a bastard, and that it was much more likely that Jon belonged to another kinsmen of the Starks. Sandor had not known who he could mean at the time, and the man decided now was not the time to bring up such controversy.

Shrugging, he pulls her tight to his chest. “Who can say? His blood was probably up and so newly married and long away from your mother, he couldn’t resist taking a woman; you women put too much stock into the “whys” of things that can’t always be explained, lass.”

Seemingly uncomfortable, Sansa moves away from him. “How do I know you won’t do such a thing?”

“Because I haven’t in the past. Because it’s the babe making you doubt me, of that I’m certain. Because I am nothing like Eddard. Does that satisfy you?” His words are tinged with bitterness.

 “True enough,” Sansa kisses him and quickly changes the subject. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Aye; everything is packed and ready. You?”

She gives him a small nod and snuggles against his chest once more, the young woman seeming to draw strength from him. He feels Sansa draw in a deep breath. “I suppose we must.” Jingling sounds echo from the barn. “That must be Podrick readying the horses.”

“I hope he stays away from Stranger; he’ll kick the boy within an inch of his life.”

“I think he’s learned his lesson by now.” Sansa laughs softly while pulling on her shift. “We must offer a gift to the brothers for our care and board, as well as the nice going away meal they provided last night.”

Elder brother and Brother McCann had made a very generous spread for them, with seafood stew, baked clams, bitter greens, cheese, brown bread, and venison. Afterward, they presented Sansa with lemoncakes as well as a prayer wheel for her unborn child.

Sandor was uncharacteristically pleased, for no one had ever given him a party of any sort that he could recall, and he also enjoyed Sansa’s enthusiasm for the entire affair. The brothers sang several hymns and then each took a turn making the sign of the Seven pointed star over Jaime, Brienne, himself and finally, over Sansa and her growing belly as well. For once, Sandor swallowed his disdain for religion and meekly submitted, the man silently saying his own prayer to Lord Eddard for the safety of his daughter and grandchild.

“What should we give them?” Sansa asked, shaking him from his thoughts.

“I had the lion give the brothers the equivalent of six months’ of my former pay in service to his kin,” Sandor moved to tie her gown. “Should be more money than they’ve ever seen. Once we reach our destination, I’ll send more.”

Turning sharply, Sansa frowns at him, her voice breaking as she speaks. “You are most generous, love, but how will we repay Jaime such a large sum? It isn’t as though we have any money coming to us soon-“

Sandor gently places his finger on her lips. “The kingslayer brought quite a war chest for you, wife, as a means of compensation for all you suffered.”

Petulantly she huffs away from him. “Just like a Lannister! Of course he would think throwing a few stags at me would make it all better! Put a few coins in my hand and let there be an end to what they have done to my father and mother and brother! How dare him! And you!” She spins away from him. “It is unthinkable that you accepted it on my behalf! For shame!”

“Sansa, easy lass,” he mutters in spite of his growing irritation. “He knows he cannot repay you for all that has happened; it was only meant as a token of good will.”

“Good will from a Lannister? It is an abomination!” Jerking away from him, Sansa hisses, “To think he can buy me, why-“

“For fuck’s sake, is it any different than having your cunt sold to them by your own family?” He sneers at her. “Tell me, wife, how is it different than being sold before you even had your first maiden’s blood to Joffrey? You ever wonder what Robert accepted as a dowry for you? Did you? I lugged that bloody heavy chest all the way back to King’s Landing!”

He can tell by her expression that she had not given it any thought. Sansa gapes at him, her cheeks reddening, but Sandor will not keep quiet, for he has reached his limits. “Spare me that shite about it’s the way of the highborn class! You women look down on whores but you allow yourself to be sold at auction by your fathers and for what? For the hopes of marring your fair prince, Sansa, you managed to overlook the ugliness of the whole affair between your father and Robert but this with the kingslayer is somehow worse, is that the way of it?”

Speechless, Sansa sputters angrily and then bursts into tears while wringing her hands.

“The way I see it, Jaime merely returned what your father gave them for you; and why the fuck does it matter now, anyway?”

“I had no say in what my father did, it is true, though he did have his misgivings. I was foolish and very much seduced by the beauty of the capital and Joffrey alike. He wanted to send us back to King’s Landing but I begged father to stay; I even told the queen.”

Sandor already knew as much but it shocks him into silence to hear her admit it.

She hangs her head. “It is my fault that we stayed.”

“No, lass; it isn’t. None of it was your fault. Your father should have listened to his own instincts, regardless; and it’s too late now to cry over what is long said and done.”

“Nevertheless, as much as I hate to admit it, you are right, in your own crude way.” Sansa carefully settles herself into the chair while Sandor gently wipes her eyes. “I don’t know, Sandor, it’s just that anything that man does seems to set me on edge.”

“I know, lass, I know.” Taking her into his arms, Sandor heaves an exasperated sigh. Wrapping her arms tightly around him, Sansa buries her face into his neck while inhaling his scent, her breath warm against his skin. “I fear it’s going to be a long trip north, wife.” Moving away from her, Sandor heads for the door. “We’ll be ready to leave in an hour hence.”

* * *

Sandor spies Jaime, Brienne and Elder brother seated at a driftwood bench beside the water. A great map is spread before them, the finest Sandor has ever seen. “What’s all this?”

“We were just discussing the safest passage north,” Brienne offers while Jaime remains lost in thought while concentrating on the task at hand. Shaking her head, she adds, “There are no good options for safe travel, for each is fraught with problems.”

“Aye, true enough.” Sandor grunts knowingly, his eye drawn to Jaime’s hand.

The kingslayer is awkwardly holding a piece of charcoal, struggling to form a line on a sheet of parchment. “Came out to watch my lessons, Clegane?”

“What in bloody hells are you doing? Mean to give up soldiers and become a second rate map maker?” Sandor snorts and Jaime soon follows in laughter.

Brienne tutts at them. “If anything about this is funny, I fail to see it.”

“Sandor, Ser Jaime is learning to use his left hand to write and draw. This is the first step.”

“What do you care if you can write, lion? Don’t you have a scribe to do such menial tasks?”

“I’ve got Brienne for that,” Jaime chuckles as the annoyed woman rises from the table. “Right, wench?”

“I’m going to help Lady Sansa.” Brienne mutters as she stalks off.

Clutching a roll to his chest, Podrick sprints up to the table, stopping just short of the men. “My lords, I mean-“

“Out with it, boy, before Clegane here grows impatient and cuts off some of that tongue you’re so fond of tripping over.”

“A message for my lord, from the queen regent.”

Snatching the letter from the youth, Jaime scans the contents with a frown. “In my absence she has directed Tommen to appoint Petyr Baelish Lord Paramount of the Trident since he married Lysa Arryn in hopes of controlling young Robert.”

Sandor shrugs disinterestedly. “Why does that concern you?”

“Because Robert gave me Jon Arryn’s title of Warden of the East. What is Littlefinger up to, I wonder? Lysa died within a sennight of the wedding.”

“Sounds right.” Sandor snorts and spits on the ground. “Whatever plans he’s scheming, he’d best stay away from us.”

“We’ll need to at least skirt the Vale heading north in order to avoid the clans.”

“Mark my words, if that buggering bastard crosses our path, my ugly face will be the last thing he sees on this gods forsaken earth.”

“You mean to kill him?” Jaime raises his brow. “No matter the attention it will draw to us?”

“Aye; I will. I’ll send Baelish to the seven hells where he belongs, believe that. As for drawing attention, I doubt he’ll leave Sansa alone, obsessed as he is with her mother. We needs keep vigilant for sellswords and the like.” Sandor looks over the golden lion. “The question is: what is your sister up to?”

Glancing away, Jaime runs his hands back through his short hair. “She means to taunt me into coming back to King’s Landing.”

Sandor swallows hard. “Will you go back then? Take Brienne with you?”

“No.” He answered decidedly. “There’s nothing for me there now, excepting Tommen. Mrycella, by all accounts, is thriving in Dorne. I’m most grateful to Tyrion for making her a good match.”

 _And getting her away from Cersei_ , Sandor added silently. “His mother and Margaery Tyrell will tear him apart, poor lad.”

Jaime nods in agreement, the man staring off into space as he does so. Sandor does not interrupt. Loud sounds from the barn draw their attention: it is Brienne, hitching the small wagon, packed and ready, to the horses.

“The wench isn’t lazy, I’ll give her that.” Jaime laughs, the sound awkward and forced.

Intuitively Sandor’s eyes travel toward Sansa, who is bundled up and waiting for them. With her bright hair flying in the breeze and her hands absently caressing the swell of their unborn child, Sandor thinks she is the most beautiful creature he has ever seen.

He could not imagine abandoning his children, or their mother, no matter the reason. Finally, Sandor adds, “He’s your blood. Don’t you want to put a stop to it?” Sandor’s eyes glitter angrily. “He is a brave boy; he could be a good king.”

“Leave it alone, Hound.” Jaime abruptly stands. “I’ll take care of him after I fulfill my vow. Varys said he would look after matters. How do you want to travel?”

“The three of us will ride pointe to make sure Sansa and the supplies are secure.” Sandor growls low. “What of your Lannister camp?”

Jaime purses his lips. “I sent them back to the capital. No use in drawing unwanted attention.”

Snorting, Sandor shakes his head. “And that will make us less conspicuous, you think? A priest and a pregnant beauty accompanied by a scarred Hound, a one handed knight covered in Lannister gold, a squire and a female warrior. Yeah, we should blend right in with the smallfolk, Lion; good thinking.”

Jaime laughs outright, and continues laughing until Brienne turns the wagon northward in the yard. At the sound, the brothers come outside, standing silently as Sandor helps Sansa into the wagon before mounting Stranger. Elder McCann steps forward to secure her, takes the reins from Podrick and then climbs in beside her.

“Seven blessings on you, Sandor and Sansa.” Elder brother approaches them with a affected smile and makes the sign of the Seven over the assembled group. “The Quiet Isle will seem empty without you.”

“Thank you Elder brother. You have done so very much for us.” Sansa’s eyes glisten as she accepts his extended hand. “We are truly grateful. I hope that one day you will consider coming to serve as our Maester. Promise me you will think on it.”

“You are most generous, Lady Sansa, but my place is here.” He struggles to offer a smile, the man uncharacteristically emotional as he speaks. Clenching his jaw, Elder brother says, “Elder McCann here will serve you well, you can depend upon it. I hope one day we will see each other again, my lady; I would so like to meet your future child.”

“We will pray for it every day,” Sansa begins to cry in earnest. “Won’t we, Sandor?”

Shifting uncomfortably in the saddle, Sandor clears his throat. “Aye, lass; that we will.”

Jaime and Brienne ride up beside them. “You ready, Cleganes?”

Sandor nods with a grunt. “Let’s get to it, then.”

“Goodbye!” Sansa waves as Elder McCann maneuvers the wagon away from the sept.

“The Seven go with you and yours!” Elder brother calls until the small group fades from sight.


	58. Return to Saltpans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank the gods, for winter is coming, Sansa contemplates, though she keeps this thought to herself as she nods in agreement. Winter had come for the Starks long ago, but still, at the sight of the destruction she could not help but recollect her house’s words. Poor souls, they know not what yet lies ahead for all of us.

The group easily make their way to the Saltpans by nightfall. The sight of the burned out shell of a town, hardly recognizable from the last time she and Sandor came through the area, sends a cold shiver through Sansa’s body. Gone are the stables, the livery, the blacksmith’s shop. Gone are the taverns and brothel, and save for one dilapidated inn, the entirety of the town center. _Rorge_ , Sansa shivers again.

Glancing into the distance, she notices the sun is beginning its descent behind the distant hills, bathing the town in a lavender hue; and Sansa cannot help but think it would be beautiful if not for the destruction surrounding them. “It was the men that came to the septry, wasn’t it?” Sansa whispers softly despite the noisy townspeople bustling about. For some unknown reason, a need for confirmation drives her.

“Aye,” Elder McCann nods. “You folks put an end to the monsters that ravaged this place, no need to fret now, milady.”

“So did you,” Sansa needles him, earning her a smile from the septon. “What of the families here?”

“The smallfolk are resilient, always have been, my lady, and life goes on in spite of the atrocities of war.”

 _Thank the gods, for winter is coming,_ Sansa contemplates, though she keeps this thought to herself as she nods in agreement. Winter had come for the Starks long ago, but still, at the sight of the destruction she could not help but recollect her house’s words. _Poor souls, they know not what yet lies ahead for all of us._

“We’ve been treating the smallfolk who escaped in the home of the Clement family that shelters Septon Meribald during his travels.” Elder McCann continues, oblivious to Sansa’s maudlin musings. “It is nearby.”

“Is that where we will spend the night?” Sansa asks hopefully. Her back already aches dreadfully, since she has grown unaccustomed to long hours on horseback after so much time spent on the Quiet Isle; and now carrying the babe, it is worse still for her.

As if reading her thoughts, Sandor turns in the saddle, his deep gray gaze seeming to sear into her soul as he does so. Sansa silently berates herself for dwelling on her discomfort, knowing that Sandor is able to sense her distress. Jerking the reins, he deftly guides Stranger toward the wagon with a grim look. “You in pain, Little bird? Tell me truly.”

“Some, but it is bearable, husband.”

Lady Brienne follows Sandor, the woman surveying Sansa, worry flickering in her crystal blue eyes as she looks on. “I know it would be far more comfortable for you my lady, but unfortunately we cannot risk it. Too many people who are likely to be curious are afoot. You are far too easily recognized with your hair as well. We must stay out of the general places of assembly in any towns we reach.”

Irritably, Sansa slowly assents: she did not need to be reminded, for she realized as much as soon as they set out; but still she hoped for a night in a soft bed at least once more before they came to the kingsroad.

Though he had appeared to be dozing off, Jaime suddenly perks up in the saddle. “I have an idea. Sit tight, my lady,” he grins wickedly before trotting off toward the inn. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

“For fuck’s sake, lion, can’t you wait to dip your wick a bit longer?” Sandor growls loudly, his harsh language drawing shocked stares of passing smallfolk.

“Ser Jaime, please we are duty bound-“ Realizing he is ignoring her, Brienne rolls her eyes at Sansa, her cheeks flushing angrily as she watches Jaime quickly dismount and ascent the back staircase. The ladies watch as several sporting women, after surveying his armor, eagerly accept his coin and wave him inside.

“It’s unlike Southpaw to visit whores.” Sandor mutters to no one in particular. “In all the years I served his sire, I’ve never seen him do such. You ever know him to do that, Brienne?”

“No, Clegane, though he never had the chance when with me.” Brienne states through gritted teeth.

“Lannister men always are eager to create an opportunity to satisfy their baser desires.” Sansa sighs sadly, her words causing Sandor’s eyes to dart to her own. _He thinks I speak of Joffrey_ ; in reality, she was thinking of Shae and Tyrion. Beside her, Elder McCann nervously fidgets with the reigns while steadily avoiding her gaze and the subject at hand.

“Not just Lannister men, lass.” Sandor rasps out harshly with a laugh. “Am I right, septon?”

“Aye, true enough.”

“Enough of such coarse talk!” Brienne blurts out, her ears reddening as she speaks. Turning away, Sansa smiles in spite of herself, though Sandor’s comment raises her curiosity.

Admittedly Sansa knows little of Jaime’s habits, though Sandor has said more than once that he was loyal to Cersei and not one for sport. Why would such a man change so suddenly? She had no answer for that. Still, Sansa cannot see that it is any of their business what Jaime does. “Let us go on then without him, then.” Sansa suggests, the young woman anxious to move away from the burned out village. “I feel like pushing onward anyway. He can catch up with us later, if needs be.”

“Not in your condition, lass.” Sandor shakes his head firmly, drawing reign on Stranger. “Brienne, secure us lodging in the stables or anywhere you deem safe.”

“Yes, my lord.” Brienne hastily steers her horse into the heart of town.

Sansa glances at her husband, who is gritting his teeth so hard that blood seeps from his mouth, but to her relief, says nothing in response to the missive.

“Well, what would you have her call you?” Sansa grins at him as Elder McCann quickly draws reign and sets about helping her out of the wagon.

“Out of my way, holy man,” Sandor growls, placing his hands on her waist and lifting her gently to the ground. “This is a husband’s duty, understand?”

“Very much so, my lord.” Elder McCann answers before hurrying after Brienne.

“So, will you let them call you ‘lord’ after all?” Sansa cannot resist needling him.

Sighing irritably, Sandor shakes his head. “No but I’m too preoccupied to fret over it at the moment.”

“We could have pressed onward, you know, if you are uncomfortable here.” Sansa offers quietly. For some unknown reason, she feels compelled to leave the area as quickly as possible. Perhaps it is her father warning her but it is just as likely it is merely her unsettled nerves; for now she decides to keep her thoughts to herself.

“No, not in your condition, lass.” Sandor brushes a stray curl from her face as he speaks.

It is only the fifth time in as many hours that Sandor has said those words today, and quite frankly, Sansa has had enough. Having watched her mother carry three children to term, she understands well the importance of being cautious. Still, Sansa feels healthy, energetic and strong, perhaps more so than she has ever felt in her life, and she is tired of him treating her like a vestal septa. Huffing, she turns away from him.

Behind her Sansa can hear Sandor muttering, as well as his broad gait hurrying to catch up to her. “What is this now?” He grips her arm, not ungently. “What’s this about?”

“Sandor, I love you with all my heart, but I cannot take any more of your mollycoddling! Now please, let me be?”

“And what it buggering hells is the ‘mollycoddling’ you’re accusing me of, wife?” She feels Sandor’s strong hands gripping her shoulders tightly.

Biting her lip, Sansa turns to face him. “I know you worry about me, but there is no need to tiptoe around me just because I am going to have a baby. My mother bore five children, raised a sixth, and she and father were planning another baby when we left for King’s Landing! And she went about her chores clear up until she delivered, and recovered from childbed in less than a sennight each time. There is no need to fuss over me so!”

A deep frown creased into his forehead. “But Sansa-“

Sansa gently places her fingers over his lips, stifling his protest. “I know you are worried, and I love you for it, but please believe me when I tell you that I am perfectly fine.  I am not very far along and still capable of doing most things for myself, as well as travelling. I feel strong and healthy, and despite my back aching which is to be expected, I have no complaints at all, so please, let me be.”

Sighing heavily, Sandor nods in agreement, though Sansa notices he is clenching his jaw so tightly that a vein now throbs prominently in his forehead. Feeling rather wicked, Sansa reaches out to him. “I appreciate your concern, my love, but I wish for you to relax a bit. I would tell you if I felt out of sorts.” Tenderly she draws his head down and places a light kiss on his mouth.

When she tries to move away, Sandor clings to her, burying his face in her hair and wrapping his massive arms around her tightly. “I cannot lose you, wife.” She hears him rasp quietly after a while.

“You will not lose me, my love,” Sansa blinks back her tears while burrowing closer to his chest. The pain of losing his sister and mother is fresh in his mind now that he is about to have a family of his own. Sansa remembers her father was likewise troubled when her mother was heavy with child. It hurts her to see his grief wrought anew and seeing this side of her husband touches Sansa deeply.

Brushing Sandor’s hair away from his eyes, Sansa then takes his face in her hands, allowing her thumbs to stroke the contours of his scarring as she speaks. “Remember the vision Father gave us? We will have our daughter in our own home by the river. With the blessing of the gods, we will have many sons and daughters and live a long life together.” Leaning into his good ear, she whispers, “I will do nothing to endanger our child, love, you must believe me. I will let you know if I feel unwell, and I promise to take extra care while carrying the babe. I swear it on our marriage.”

Sansa often wonders if they will ever reach a place when such reassurances will no longer be necessary but she is determined to continue until Sandor is able to trust her words in his heart. Swallowing hard, Sandor kisses her soundly before settling her down on her feet. “Come on, then, let’s get something to eat while the others find us a place to spend the night.”

Covering his face with a cowl, Sandor motions for her to raise her hood. “Tuck all of that red hair up in there now; there’s a good lass.” Quickly Sansa winds her braids into two buns and then pins them at the base of her neck, after which she ties a scarf around her head and then pulls the hood over.

Glancing around at the remnants of the town, there seemed to be few options for meals or lodging. Grunting, Sandor leads her toward the inn where Jaime had disappeared. “Are we going in _there_?”

Frowning, Sandor raises his eyebrow at her. “You got a better idea, wife?”

No, as a matter of fact she does not. It isn’t so much that she disapproves of going in the inn; only now that Lady Brienne and Jaime where with them, Sansa inexplicably feels a bit uncomfortable about the risk of disgracing her family name. Snorting, Sandor shakes his head, still waiting for an answer.

Hastily she smiles up at him. “No; that is to say, I do not mind.”

“Are you certain? Don’t lie to me, girl.” Sandor held her chin up to him and scrutinized her thoroughly. “What is it?”

“You’ll think me a fool, but I-I do not wish to reproach the Stark name by going in there, since Jaime and Brienne, not to mention Elder McCann, know my true identity.” Biting her lip, she looks around once more. The mercantile store was thoroughly looted some time ago. Most of the surviving structures are those made of brick and still bear the charred scarring of the fires. The townsfolk appear poor and underfed. Scrawny orphaned children peer out at them from the shadows, waiting for scraps.

Sandor agrees. “Foolish, aye. You need to leave that behind you now.” Not waiting for an answer from her, Sandor suddenly calls to the smallest of the children. “You, girl; come here, child.” The sound of his voice, still rasping and threatening, startles the wretched little thing, but Sansa notices he attempts a smile before gracefully falling to one knee. “Come here.”

Cautiously she approaches him, reminding Sansa of the mean old tomcat Arya kept at Winterfell. He would slink up after the direwolves had their fill and eat the remnants. One day she and her brothers saw Arya lugging the matted, gnarled thing up to her chambers. “For rats.” She explained when her father asked her about him.

“Doesn’t Nymeria see to those?” Ned asked with a twinkle in his eyes, gesturing to the huge direwolf sniffing the hissing creature curiously.

“Yes, Father, but really, it’s beneath our sigil to chase rats.” Arya scratched the tomcat’s ears. “I’ll keep Torrhen here for that.”

“Father, it has fleas!” Sansa screeched, little knowing that fleas could not live in the chill of the north. At the memory, Sansa dips her head and stares at her hands, fresh shame washing over her anew.

“Fleas or no, Torrhen will stay so that your noble direwolf pup won’t need to chase the rats.” Her father announced, even though everyone knew Arya least of all was afraid of any creature, and instead merely used the vermin an excuse to take pity on the old cat.

Sandor’s rasping voice stirs her from her recollections. “Come on now. I don’t bite.”

When still the mite hesitates, Sansa leans down too. “Come child, we won’t hurt you.” She uses the same sing-song voice that proved most effective with Rickon and Bran long ago when she speaks. After many long moments the little girl finally works up the nerve to approach Sandor. When she draws close, Sansa sees that her arm was previously bandaged, but during her play the wrapping had come undone, exposing a very nasty looking burn from shoulder to elbow.

Sansa watches Sandor’s face twitch when his eyes fall on her injury. “I got burned once, too.” He rasps low, pointing to his scarred face.

“Oh, no.” The little girl whispers, staring with all her might. Instead of flinching, she draws closer still, much to Sansa’s relief.  “Hurts don’t it?”

“Aye. Who done it to you, lass? Tell me and I’ll have words with them.”

When she remains silent, Sandor digs into the pocket of his breeches and takes out a piece of lavender honey candy. When she holds out her hand, he gently places it in her palm. “Your Pa do it?

“No, ser. He an’ me Ma went north to see if our farm’s still there.”

“Then where do you stay?” Sandor asks nonchalantly, though Sansa can see the fury simmering in his gaze. She knows Sandor feels it, too, for he turns his eyes toward the inn so as to hide his anger from the child.

“With my brothers and sister. The septons have a home for us yonder.” She manages between chews, staring at his scarred face in wonderment. Cautiously she raises her little hand to his face, patting the scarred side and then whispers, “A _hound_ done it.”

“That so? A hound, you say?”  He hands her another candy.

“Aye, a scary man wearing a hound head.” She draws a circle in the dirt with her toe. “He hurt my sister. She’s twelve. The septons are getting her well.”

Visibly saddened, Sandor scratches his beard. “Hmm a mean dog burned me, too; how do you like that? Same one, might be, could be.”

“Truly, m’lord?” Her tone is so sad that Sandor can barely restrain her tears.

He shrugs. “Some hounds are good, too, though.” Sandor reaches into his tunic and takes out his marriage favor, showing the child his sigil embroidered on his wedded sash.

Mimicking Sandor’s movements, she shrugs, until Sandor holds out another piece of candy. “Aye, some hounds have candy that they share with little ones.” She beams at him, the first genuine smile she offers them.

“That they do,” Sandor’s deep gray eyes twinkle as he hands her another confection. “You needn’t fear that man with the Hound’s helm, child. He went to the Seven hells.”

The little girl’s eyes grow wide. Her eyes dart to Sansa, who nods in agreement. “I saw it happen. You never need fear that one again.”

Sighing deeply, the little girl fidgets anxiously, eying his pockets for more candy. She’s about Rickon’s age, Sansa ascertains, the thought sending a fresh pang of grief to her heart.

“You stay put with my wife, you hear?” He taps her nose. When she agrees, Sandor gives her another candy and then walks toward the wagon. “There’s a good lassie. Elder McCann, come here.”

Immediately Sansa takes the child into her arms and begins cooing over her, and not for the first time, thanks the gods for sending Sandor to her. The young septon stops grooming the horses at once and draws close. “Yes, my lord?”

“Do you know the orphanage the child speaks of?”

“Aye.”

“You know the men there? Are they good sorts like the Elder brother?”

“Yes, milord; I’ve known them for several years. Good men they are, too.”

“Take the babe back to them and tend her arm, will you?” After rummaging through their things, he takes out four bags of coin. “See that she and the others get a good meal. Pay the septons for taking care of her elder sister, who is still recovering from what the men did to her.”

“Yes, milord, certainly.”

“When the store opens on the morrow, you buy all you can for the young ones you meet there, understand? Tell them it is a gift from my wife.” Poking the septon’s chest, Sandor stares into his face. “You see to it that it _all_ goes for the young ones and not to fill the men’s bellies with wine, understand? Or I’ll come back and burn down their houses, every last one of them.”

“Of course, milord. You need not worry; the septons will be most pleased with the gift and will use it aright! The gods will smile on you for this, Sandor Clegane.”

Sandor shrugs disinterestedly. “I didn’t do it for them, or for myself. I’m doing it for Sansa.” Before Elder McCann can comment further, Sandor stalks off.

Sansa pretends she does not overhear the exchange and instead busies herself with braiding the child’s hair. When Sandor returns to her side, the little tyke holds her arms out to him. “Come with me, babe, and be good for the holy man. He is a healer; he helped my wife and he’ll tend your arm and aid your sister.”

When she frowns uncertainly, Sandor pokes her nose again. “Trust me, do you?”

Warily she nods and accepts Elder McCann’s hand. “Come, bonny lassie, take me to your home.”

Speechless, Sansa pulls her husband close. She feels him sigh deeply and then wrap his cloak around her shoulders. A light flurry begins to fall around them, quickly covering the ground in a sprinkling of snow.

 _Winter is coming_ , her father’s ears echo in her ear. _Sandor is right; the world of lords and ladies, of propriety and chivalry that we once lived in is over. Perhaps we will be better for it. The winters are hard but the Starks survive. We always have. The Starks help and nourish their people, not worry over what the southroners think of us. It will be different for the smallfolk, once the wolves return._ _I need to adapt with it, concentrate on helping those less fortunate and bother what anyone thinks._

“What a good father you are, my love.” Sansa says quietly, stopping to kiss his cheek as they watch the two walk away hand in hand. “That was beautiful to behold.”

“Stop it now.” Sandor rasps, not ungently and Sansa cannot help but laugh when he kisses her in return. “Let’s eat.”

* * *

When they enter the inn, Sansa smiles genially as she looks around. “This seems to be the only place those butchers didn’t burn.” She says under her breath, to which Sandor gives a short nod in reply.

A bustling wench soon approaches them and sets two tankards of ale on the table. “What you an’ the missus want t’eat?”

“What’s on tonight?” Sandor asks, taking both tankards.

“Rabbit stew, venison steak, leek soup and bread.”

“Bring two of everything,” Sandor hands her several stags. “And anything else you may have in the back for _special_ customers.”

The wench bites the coin, and then laughs at Sansa’s startled expression. “Hon, looks like you got a rich un, here, better hold on to him.”

Smiling, Sansa nods. “I will. Pray is there any milk to be found?”

“Aye, we keep a goat for some for the…women with young.” The woman glances upstairs, her cheeks reddening as she does so.

“My wife is with child,” Sandor fishes out another coin. “Will that get you to share it?”

The woman winks at Sandor. “T’will at that.”

Suddenly Sandor grabs the woman by the wrist and yanks her close. “It will buy your silence, too, or I’ll cut out your tongue, believe that.”

“I do, m’lord,” she scowls, shaking her hand; to Sansa’s surprise, she doesn’t seem very alarmed by his behavior. “Please, milord, we’en had enough troubles.”

“We have too. Now keep quiet and bring that food or you’ll have another yet.” Sandor growls as Sansa nervously studies her hands.

When she walks away, Sandor leans in. “Eat quickly so we can move on. Word of that coin will spread soon enough.”

“Then why did you give her so much and then rough her up?” Sansa asks, genuinely curious.

Narrowing his eyes at her, Sandor smirks. “Money buys food in a shit town like this, but fear buys silence. Look around,” he gestures outside. “These people know what happens when the wrong people decide to stick around.”

“They certainly do.” Sansa agrees sadly.

Snorting, Sandor leans back and takes a long sip of ale. “Come on then, relax for a bit. I’m sure the lion is bound to be drawing plenty of attention himself.”

The old oak door creaks open, admitting Brienne, Pod and Elder McCann just as Sandor finishes speaking. Sansa waves them over.

“We found lodging for the night with the blacksmith,” Brienne whispers while cautiously eyeing the patrons. “He lives outside of town and has a large barn filled with hay and a loft, if that suits.”

“Yes, Brienne, that will do nicely, thank you.” Sansa smiles warmly, the young woman recollecting the last time she and Sandor spent the night in a loft. “We know the man; we’ve stayed with him before.”

Sandor chuckles low at that, lasciviously staring at her all the while.

Brightening, Brienne smiles in return, oblivious to the unspoken exchange between husband and wife. “As soon as you finish, I’ll escort you there gladly.”

“What the fuck is that?” Sansa hears the jeers of the men as they turn to stare at Brienne. Blushing, she hastily sits down beside Sansa and leans into the alcove behind them. It seems to the young woman that the Brienne, the once confident warrior, has suddenly vanished, leaving in her stead a very self-conscious maid who is now trying to make herself disappear without much success.

Podrick nervously takes his place beside Sandor while anxiously avoiding his face. “The elder man said he will stay in the stables and wait for us.”

“Sandor, please, make him come in,” Sansa frets, taking him by the hand. “We cannot have Elder McCann eating out in the cold while we-“

“I wouldn’t fret over it, Lady Sansa, he means to have room to, shall we say, _change_ should there be trouble. An excellent notion, very wise.” Jaime interjects, winking at Sansa as he pulls up a chair beside Brienne.

Sandor grunts in agreement. “I wondered what held you up, lion. If it takes you that long to get your business done, you need a maester, not a whore.”

Jaime slaps his knee and laughs heartily. “Innkeep, more ale-and more of everything!” The golden knight waves a coin in the air. “There’s a good man.”

Hastily several servants bring steaming troughs brimming with food as well as plenty of ale and bread and a pint of milk for Sansa. Everyone at the table eagerly begins eating but over the din, Sansa can still hear the jeers of the men at the next table.

“Who is that?” A fat man asks loudly. “Is that the kingslayer?”

“No, can’t be, not here.” A low ranking Lannister foot soldier replies definitively. “What would he be doing in the likes of this place? And with them, no less?”

“Drinking and fucking and talking shit, same as the rest of us.” A third man dressed in the armor of a knight states authoritatively, earning a hearty laugh from the general assembly.

Stiffening, Sansa glowers at the men and then gently kicks Sandor under the table. She could see the fury simmering in his eyes when he look up at her, hand on sword, and Sansa realizes that her husband is already one step ahead of her.

Just as Sandor was about to rise, Jaime leaps to his feet, his golden hand cracking the knight across the mouth so hard that he stumbles out of his chair and rolls onto the floor. The lantern on their table smashes to the floor and the oil spreads out, burning. “You are speaking of a highborn lady, ser. Call her by her name. Call her Brienne.”

In the same instant, Sandor is on his feet with both swords drawn, as is Brienne, the intimidating pair bringing a rise of doubt to the rest of the men assembled, who only a moment before looked ready to spring into action. Sansa remains in her seat, calmly drinking her milk as she watches the scene unfold.

The knight edges away from the spreading flames on his hands and knees. “Brienne. If it please my lord.” He spits a glob of blood at Jaime’s feet. “Brienne the Beauty.” The knight’s dinner companions ease away from the table and out of the way.

“Her name is Brienne," Jaime corrects the knight while digging the blade of his fighting knife into the knight’s scalp. "Brienne, the maid of Tarth.” He turns to Brienne. “You _are_ still maiden, I hope?"

A look of annoyance flashes across her broad homely face, the woman blushing a deep red as she hurriedly throws an old cloak over the flames, beating them out. "Yes, Jaime."

"Oh, good," Jaime replies. "I only defend the honor of maidens.” And with that he brings down his boot on the man, kicking him dead in the face, the act earning a deep menacing laugh of approval from Sandor.

Rolling her eyes, Brienne returns to Sansa’s side. With a gentle pat on the arm, Sansa offers her more bread, to which the woman smiles appreciatively.

“You ought to be blowing me kisses, not eating.” Jaime pouts, returning to his seat.

Laughing low, Sandor shakes his head, his mouth twitching into a broad grin, twisting his scars in a most alarming manner as he and Podrick also sit down. “Now that you’ve made a scene, lion, how do you suppose we’ll get through this night without any trouble?”

“On the contrary, Clegane, I think I just taught the patrons here a very valuable lesson as to what happens to those who offend us.”

Smirking, Sandor shakes his head once more and returns to his meal. “You’re just feeling your oats after your fuck. Did the wench give you something special?”

Bursting out laughing, Jaime nods heartily. “As a matter of fact, she did,” he answers, pulling out a small burlap bag out of his jerkin and tossing it on the table. “For you, Lady Sansa.”

“What in bloody hells?” Sandor snatches it up before Sansa can see its substance. “What is this?” He asks curiously, fingering through the contents.

“A blend of black walnut powder and black tea leaves from Tyrosh,” Jaime answers with a twinkle in his eyes. Confused, Sansa frowns and so he adds, “The wenches here use it to dye their hair darker. Some of the ladies at court also use it.”

Now that Sansa thinks of it, she remembers seeing women at court whose hair color seemed unnaturally dark. She once commented to Shae about it and Shae intimated they had done something to their hair, but what she did not say. Afterward Shae often pointed them out to Sansa as they walked about the gardens, snickering at them.

Turning to Sansa, Jaime looks her over. “You aren't the only woman in Westeros who needs to keep her identity hidden, my lady.”

Sansa nods, knowing that much is true. “Clever.”

“But what difference does it make if she dyes her hair when you go around announcing who I am to a room full of people?” Brienne bristles beside her. “And you, with that golden hair and armor-it wouldn’t take a scholar to figure out who you are. “

After taking a long drink, Jaime nods. “I’m going to shear off my hair-Clegane here knows how. As for the armor, the blacksmith can help with that. And I won’t be making that announcement again, I assure you. Besides, Cersei and the rest expect to find you and I in these parts as it is, so there was no harm in it. As we travel, though-“

“You’ll have to learn to keep your bloody mouth shut, and quick,” Sandor growls low while pouring Sansa another cup of milk. “Think you can do that, lion?”

Laughing, Jaime answers, “I do believe I can, Clegane. What _do_ barbers charge these days, anyway?”

“Fuck off, or a hand isn’t the only thing you’ll be losing, believe that.” Sandor snarls, his rough tongue causing Jaime to laugh louder still.

After observing Sandor and Jaime together for some time now, Sansa is able to distinguish his teasing from true anger, and she is happy to see this lighter side of her husband. Admittedly, though, Jaime Lannister is the last person she expected to bring it out in him.

“So you didn’t go the wenches for the-“ Brienne nervously asks, eying Jaime as she speaks.

“For the sport? No.” He winks at her and continues eating.

Curiously Sansa watches as Brienne blushes further, a small smile creeping across her mouth. Under the table, Sandor nudges her foot, though outwardly he appears to have taken no notice of the exchange. Sansa pats him in return, to which he grins and offers her more milk.

After the meal is finished, Sansa sleepily allows Sandor to settle her onto the wagon beside Elder McCann. Brienne carefully leads the way to the blacksmith’s barn, and never has a stack of hay ever looked so comfortable to Sansa. After Elder McCann prepared the furs, Sandor gently laid down beside her, cradling her in his arms while the others stood watch below.

"I'll wake you at midnight," Brienne calls up to them but so exhausted is she that Sansa only vaguely hears her, the young woman quickly drifting off to sleep in her husband's protective embrace.


	59. Undeterred

“You’re certain of this? Jaime Lannister is in the Saltpans with the Hound?” Petyr Baelish drums his fingers on the desk once belonging to Jon Arryn. No matter what the Lords Declarant believe, he belongs there in the Eyrie. Lord Paramount of the Trident, Lord of Harrenhal and now Lord Protector of the Vale. He has suffered for this position, planned for it, bled for it, and the man is determined his reward will be Sansa Stark.

Though he saw what was left of her gown dredged from the moat, though he attended her funeral and even spoke on behalf of her family (much to the Imp’s amusement) Petyr will never believe she is dead. The very thought of Cat’s daughter living as Sandor Clegane’s wife is enough to make him physically ill. He says none of these things to his visitor, however; instead Petyr silently eyes the unusually tall man, waiting for him to finish draining his goblet so they can get down to business.                                                                                                  

“Yes, milord. I’ve already told you twice that the kingslayer has been reported in the company of the Hound in the Saltpans. Clegane hasn’t even bothered to alter his appearance.”

With his hooked nose, tall muscular build, black hair and wicked grin, the man could be mistaken for the Hound himself. Baelish laughs at the very idea, though his eyes remain coldly fixed on his guest. “And what would you recommend as a disguise for such gruesome scars? You can dress and talk like the peasantry all you like, but you cannot fool those who know you best, Osfryd. Tell me, what does the Queen Regent want?”

“This information has nothing to do with Queen Cersei,” Osfryd Kettleblack refills his goblet and then takes a deep draw before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It comes from a far more reliable source of information.”

Sneering, Lord Baelish fingers his rings thoughtfully before speaking. “Reliable, you say? From one of your brothers, I gather?”

Eyes narrowing, Osfryd nods slowly. “I’m willing to go after the pair myself; me and my brothers. Cersei’s plans are falling apart and soon my brothers and I will be needing a bit of leverage, Lord Baelish, particularly with Kevan Lannister sniffing about. I should kill the old fool to keep him out of my hair.”

“Why not just make for the Wall?”

Some time ago, Petyr had hired the Kettleblack brothers to spy on Cersei; now Osfryd is here, willing to go after the Hound for assurance of his family’s safety. The irony of the situation is not lost on Baelish, who cannot help but laugh once more.

“Unlikely, that we’d make it through both Lannister and Stark country, wouldn’t you say?”

Baelish shook his head. “True enough, that. You’d say just about anything to ensure safe passage for you and your brothers, wouldn’t you? I warned you that fucking Cersei would come with risks for more dangerous than Jaime Lannister.”

“Aye, say what you will but this time I’m telling the truth.” Osfryd plays with the handle of his short sword as he speaks. “The Hound is alive and with Jaime Lannister. Do you want them or not?”

“Well, your story is altogether unbelievable. And men have done far less than tell a half-witted lie to secure safe passage through the Vale.” Baelish studies him carefully; there appears to be no deception in the man, and Petyr knows full well that Osfryd Kettleblack isn’t _that_ skilled of a liar. Still, he would hear more from the man.

“I swear milord, I speak true.”

“Where did you obtain this information? From peasants? Whores?”

“Well-“ the man stammers.

“How many peasants or whores have seen Jaime Lannister?” Petyr Baelish shakes his head while a smooth curl takes shape on his lips. “They probably believe any blonde fool with patchwork armor is Jaime Lannister and spread their legs for half the price. You’re wasting my time.”

“Not a peasant, milord. One of his own men.” Satisfied with Baelish’s stunned expression, the man settles back in his seat. “An officer of the Lannister army talked aplenty to a camp follower he kept with along the Kingsroad. Went on and on about seeing them in an inn in the Saltpans and the like. My brother Osney heard it all.”

That catches the Lord of the Vale’s attention. Turning sharply, he fixes his gaze on the informant. “He told this to a camp follower within earshot of a member of the Kingsguard?”

“Why should a lower ranked officer care about a member the Kingsguard? He was just talking shit around the fire like everyone else, no reason for him to concern himself.”

“So you’re saying the Hound and Jaime Lannister were in some flea bitten brothel with two women? One named Brienne who was outfitted like a knight, and the other-?”

“Aye, that’s the way of it. Not a brothel though, an inn with a few sporting women, more like. And they had a brother of the Seven with them.” Ignoring the second half on Baelish’s question, Osfryd runs the blade of his knife along the sole of his shoe as he waits for Petyr’s response.

A brother of the Seven with the Hound and Jaime Lannister? That is beyond belief; though Baelish is unconvinced, he is also unwilling to risk ignoring the first information he has heard of the Hound in two moons.

Trying not to appear too eager, Petyr demurs: “And what are the Lannister lion and the Hound, in the company of a holy brother and two women doing in the burned out remnants of an inn in the Saltpans?”

The man shrugs. “Don’t know. Fighting some outlaws on the Quiet Isle protecting the brothers and now travelling east, it would seem. Had a peculiar incident involving some wolves, too.”

The men he sent to the Quiet Isle. They never returned, proof enough for Baelish that they had indeed met the Hound in battle. He hadn’t really expected any of them to survive, truth be told, but still the man hoped for word of Sansa Stark would reach him when the thing was done. Was she still with the Hound? Was she in good health? Why would the men take her to a brothel? Was Sansa now servicing both of them? Bitter bile raises in his throat, and Baelish knows he will not rest until he finds out the truth.

Osfryd continues, all the while amusedly watching Petyr’s anxiety. “Says the men were in the company of a big blond wench wearing armor and another woman, a real beauty.”

_Finally…_

Clenching his jaw, Baelish abruptly leans forward while staring at the man with all his might. “And what of the other woman? She kept with Osney after?”

“Aye, she did. That’s how he heard.”

Baelish nodded knowingly. “And how did the camp follower describe the woman, aside from her beauty?”

“Didn’t say much about her at all, milord, just that she was young, very young,” the man holds up his palms. “Nothing else must have stood out about her.” Osfryd chuckles knowingly, the sound setting Petyr’s teeth on edge.

“ _Nothing_ stood out, you say?” Baelish raises his eyebrows. “I’ve never met a woman who made her livelihood from sport who didn’t notice another woman’s beauty in detail. You _have_ seen Sansa Stark, have you not?”

“Aye, a beauty she was, one well worth remembering.” Osfryd wolfishly grins at Baelish. ”But as I said, the camp follower’s account was dependent on the soldier’s description, and she just claimed the woman with the Hound was pretty but gave no other details about her.”

“She didn’t say that the redhead had nice hair or a voluptuous figure?”

“No.”

“Then why should I send you after her if I have no reason to believe the woman is, in fact, Sansa Stark?”

“My lord, any man with half a brain wouldn’t risk staring _too_ long at the Hound’s woman, and no amount of coin you offer would convince them otherwise. The camp follower wouldn’t want to get her meal ticket into a row, either, you know.” Rubbing his chin, Osfryd affectedly winces so as to appear lost in thought. “Come to think of it, she said one of the women was a redhead, kissed by fire and the other was blonde, very tall, and went by the name of Brianne.”

 _Brienne. Brienne of Tarth._ Baelish stares hard at the man, hardly blinking in his eagerness.

“And one more thing: she was with child. Not far along, mind you, but far enough that evidence of the babe was noticeable through her clothes, and the Hound was guarding her himself. Said the Hound never looked so fearsome. Must be his pup.”

 _Sansa Stark is with child? If I bring her here, she could be mine, she would have our child. I would give her pretty things, remind her to be grateful that I rescued her, and she will soon forget all about the Hound._ _From there it is a short trip to Winterfell._ Mouth twitching, Baelish forces a smile, the corner of his mouth bleeding as he does so.

Oblivious to Baelish’s scheming, Osfryd laughs outright at his obvious distress. “Looks like your northern beauty’s flower has already been plucked, Lord Baelish.”

“Never mind that. Where are your brothers?”

“At the Sky waycastle.”

“Take your brothers and go after them.” Petyr pushes four bags of coin in front of Osfryd. “I have to know if the woman with the Hound is indeed Sansa Stark. You must send me proof.”

“Like what? A lock of her hair.”

Baelish nods. “Yes, that will do nicely. The other fools I sent after them had never seen her, and were promptly cut down by the Hound.”

“Well, they weren’t me, my lord,” Osfryd grins wickedly. “It’s time the Hound tangled with someone his own size. And the kingslayer, well, he’s no challenge anymore.”

Despite his bravado, Osfryd is no match for the Hound, of that Baelish is certain, but Baelish is convinced one of the Kettleblack’s are bound to succeed, especially now that Jaime is no longer a swordsman. Rolling his eyes, Petyr hisses: “Do what you must with Jaime and Clegane, but bring the girl to me alive and unharmed, her and the child. Do this, and your family will be secured. I’ll send you to the Wall myself with letters securing your safe passage.”

Raising his brow, Osfryd rises to his feet, towering over Baelish momentarily, then bows low. “Yes, my lord.”

* * *

Nuzzling into Sandor’s neck, Sansa places a light kiss there and sighs contentedly. If only this could be _their_ bed, in _their_ home. She is very tired, tired of running, tired from travel, but the babe in her womb is restless and has kicked her for the greater portion of the evening. Gently she begins rubbing the spot just below her rib cage hoping it will sooth her unborn child.

Sandor has been a light sleeper ever since they have been wed, and even the slightest movement awakens him. Soon Sansa feels his large hands running down the length of her spine. “You alright, little bird?” He murmurs softly, the harsh rasp of his voice in sharp contrast to his tender tone.

“Yes, Sandor.” she whispers back, nuzzling further into the warmth of his beard.

His fingers tangle into her hair, stroking her lightly. “Why aren’t you sleeping? You need rest.”

“I know, love, but our daughter disagrees with both of us,” Sansa smiles and places his hand on her belly. “I believe she already has your disposition. Feel that, will you?”

Another sharp kick lands right beneath Sandor’s hand. Smiling, he rubs the area. ”Bloody hells, she’s going to be a fighter like the wolf bitch.”

“She mostly responds to your voice, Sandor,” Sansa beams up at him, and the look of utter love and devotion shining in his gaze nearly steals his breath. “Although tonight she kicks long after we both bedded down.”

“Not unusual, that.” Grinning, Sandor begins rubbing soothing circles over the spot before Sandor leans down and rests his ear on her belly. “Listen pup, you let your mother rest, you hear?”

Sansa cannot help but laugh outright when another kick lands squarely under his ear as soon as Sandor finishes speaking.

“She’s got the wolf bitch’s blood in her for true,” Sandor growls low. “I bet she kicked like a mule when your lady mother carried her.”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you? But as I recall, Mother didn’t have any trouble carrying Arya-no aches, no morning sickness, nothing. She rode horses and worked in the greenhouse clear up until her seventh moon and then she only quit because she was so big she could no longer balance herself without my father’s help.” Sansa readjusts her position. “In fact, my sister was so still that Father insisted the maester use his listening tool on my mother’s belly every day to check for her heartbeat.”

“A listening tool, you say?” Sandor tips her chin up and kisses her softly, then begins massaging her low back.

“Yes, it’s actually a small horn with rivulets cut inside to amplify the sound-or at least that’s how they are in the north.”

“Aye, I’ve seen them, now that I think on it. Cersei had one. Might be we get one of those, what say you?”

“I’m certain Elder McCann has one.” Sansa answers before moaning as Sandor hits a particularly tender spot above her tail bone. “Also, I need some dandelion tea, love. Just look at how swollen my ankles are, will you?”

“We needs stop more often, then.” Sandor grunts as he inspects each foot. “I’ll massage them when we stop for the night also. Might take us longer to get to White Harbor than we thought, lass, but not to worry.”

“How can I help it?” Anxiously Sansa turns his face toward her. “Winter is coming. And I doubt Petyr Baelish just gave up after the fight on the Quiet Isle. Sandor, what are we going to do?”

Sandor stops his ministrations and takes her face in his hands, his deep steely gaze boring into her as his speaks. “You will not worry on it, you hear? Your job is keep our pup happy, warm and well fed. You will eat as much as your heart desires, you’ll rest as much as you need, and you will think only of the good things your Father has shown you, little bird.”

“But-“

“But _nothing_ , wife,” Sandor places his thumb over her lips. “No argument, lass. You let me and the lion worry about everything else.” He insistently stares into her eyes, waiting for her assent. “Promise me.”

Reluctantly Sansa agrees. “Alright, Sandor, but I must tell you that ever since we arrived, I have felt most anxious-as though we should leave at once. Please, think on it, will you?”

“Aye, I’ll do you one better,” Sandor rises and straps on his sword belt. “We’ll leave right now.”

At his words, Sansa feels a sudden sense of relieve wash over her but still she hesitates to alert the others. Glancing around, Sansa grips his arm. “But Sandor, it’s the middle of the night.”

“I’ll not risk you or the pup, wife,” he gently takes her by the arms. “Mayhap it’s your father warning us. Mayhap that is why the pup is so restless. We’ve no way to know for sure and I’ll not sleep now until we’re away from here.” Carefully Sandor lifts her into his arms. “I told you not to keep such from me.”

Biting her lip, Sansa slowly nods. “I should have mentioned it earlier.”

“Never mind that. Come now, I’ll get you tucked into the wagon. You’ll be warm under the furs, and you can lie down in the back and sleep as we travel.”

“Alright,” she draws his head down to her lips and kisses him soundly, the gesture bringing another small smile to his lips. “Thank you.”

“Come on, lion, we’re leaving.” Sandor barks, kicking Jaime with the toe of his boot. “Brienne, we’re leaving now. Elder McCann, hitch the wagon.”

Unquestioningly Brienne begins readying their things while Jaime pulls Sandor off to the side to speak in private.

“What is it?” Elder McCann asks, his eyes struggling to focus on Sansa. “Did your father speak to you in your dreams?”

“No, it’s just that ever since we arrived, I have felt an overwhelming desire to leave this place, and-“ Sansa stops, not wanting to sound foolish.

“What is it, my lady?’ Elder McCann lightly rests his hand on her arm. “Tell me truly.”

“Well, it’s the babe. She’s been very restless, kicking and such,” Sansa rubs her belly as she speaks. “She’s always been active, you know, but this time it feels _different_ , somehow. Sandor fears it is Father warning us.”

Nodding assuredly, Elder McCann hurriedly pulls off his boots and sheds his cloak. “I agree with your husband wholeheartedly. Not to worry, my lady.”

“What-what are you doing?” Sansa asks, her eyes widening at the holy man.

“I’m going to scout the area, my lady.” Elder McCann continues removing his robes.

“You will go scouting in your…other shape?” She stares at him, the young woman at once frightened and yet intrigued.

“You needn’t fear me in my greatbear form. I am not an unreasoning animal, although I appear to be one, and I still retain my inner humanity though I am able to freely avail myself of the animal's strength and ferocity." Observing Sansa's distress, he adds: "You are Winterfell’s daughter, my lady, and I’m sworn to protect you, your babe and your husband. On my honor, I will do whatever is necessary to keep you and your family safe. Rest, my lady, and leave this to me.” With that he makes the sign of the Seven over her and then quickly whispers a few words to Sandor and Jaime before disappearing outside.

Wordlessly Brienne and Jaime ride ahead as Sandor lifts Sansa into the wagon and then climbs in front of her. As the trio leave the barn, no one speaks, each of them straining their ears to any unusual sounds. Aside from the occasional nickering of the horses, the night is eerily silent. With her eyes closed, Sansa focuses on the feel of Stranger and Maiden’s gate, which feels most pleasant, the swaying motion reminding Sansa of the weirwood chair in which her father used to rock her back to sleep when she had nightmares.

“You’ve nothing to fear, little lemoncake.” Ned’s voice whispers in her ear, clear as day, while the warmth of his arms surround her. “Listen to me now. I’ve got you, lass. Sandor and I won’t let any harm come to you or your babe. Let Elder McCann do the will of the Old gods.” It all feels so real that Sansa reaches out to her father and places her arms around Ned’s neck. In the back of her mind, Sansa knows she must be dreaming but she feels so safe and contented that she snuggles down under the furs and falls fast asleep, the young woman blissfully ignorant of the terrified screams of the Lannister soldiers camped in the gully below.

* * *

“Quit fucking around, lion,” Sandor voice snarls so loudly that Sansa is awakened at once. “How do you expect me to cut your hair off if you keep squirming around?”

Sleepily Sansa peers over the edge of the wagon to see Sandor, with his sleeves rolled up and a towel tucked into his belt, determinedly lopping off the length of Jaime’s golden locks while a horror stricken Brienne looks on with her hand resting over her mouth.

Unable to prevent a giggle from escaping her lips, she sees Jaime look up in her direction just as Sandor takes the blade to his neck, nicking a small gash in the process.

Wincing, Jaime jerks away from Sandor. “Bloody hells, Clegane! I thought you knew what you were doing! When you squired, you used to cut the knight’s hair and shaved them too-“

“Fuck, do you realize how long it’s been since I did any of that shit-“ Sandor roars out, then is suddenly interrupted when Sansa loses all semblance of control. Howling, Sansa laughs long and hard at the very idea of the fearsome Hound starting off as a squire barbering for the Lannisters. When both men stare at her with the same blank expression, the absurdity of it all sends her doubled over into the furs, and Brienne soon joins her, the sound of the women's laughter echoing loudly through the forest.

“I’m so sorry, it’s just that-“ Sansa tries to explain before another fit of laughter consumes her once more. “The idea of Sandor-barbering-it’s too funny!” Holding her belly, Sansa falls over once more as another giggling fit consumes her.

“That’s it, lion, I don't give a shit what your hair looks like, I’ve had it, gods be damned!” Sandor jerks away from Jaime, throwing down the knife and wiping his hands decidedly as Sansa’s giggling continues. Although he is bleeding where Sandor nicked him, Jaime merely laughs along with her and Brienne, his deep green eyes twinkling merrily at the two women's mirth.

When she and Brienne sober up, Sansa motions to her to come closer. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere in the woods close to the High Road leading into the Vale, my lady.”Brienne smiles brightly. "The night was clear, the roads were dry and so we made excellent time."

Stunned, Sansa searches Brienne's face. “But how is that possible? We’ve only been on the road for-”

“You slept all day so we pushed on. It’s late afternoon, little bird.” Sandor interrupts, all the while still glaring at Jaime. “Best eat something,” he hands her a bowl of venison stew. “Early this morning Brienne bagged us a doe.”

“Turns out the wench can hunt and cook too!” Jaime teasingly nudges Brienne with his foot while Sandor resumes struggling with his hair. "What more could a man ask for?"

Ignoring him, Sansa carefully scans the area. “Where is Elder McCann?”

“Down by the creek bed, sleeping off his…transformation.” Brienne quietly explains. “He found the men that were after us. Lannister soldiers camped in the gully below, just waiting for dawn to strike. There...wasn't much left of them when I went back to bury the bodies.”

“Oh,” is all Sansa can think to say. Her father sent Elder McCann to protect her, and she will not think on what needs to be done to make that possible, nor will she regret it. After finishing her meal, Sansa says: “Would you be so good as to help me down, Brienne? I’d better attend to Jaime before Sandor here beheads him.”

“Yes, my lady, of course.” Brienne takes Sansa into her arms, and then both women once again burst into laughter.

“Don’t think I won’t, either.” Sandor grouses, his pride clearly hurt. When Brienne settles her beside her husband, Sansa pats him lightly and then softly kisses each cheek. “We were only teasing. Forgive me.” Sansa takes his hands and kisses each of them. “Come now, say you will.”

“Quit it now, little bird, before I get good and mad.” Sandor finally grumbles, though Sansa notices the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile as he speaks. When she starts to move away from him, Sandor abruptly scoops her into his arms, burying his face in the nape of her neck before he bends low to pick up the knife.

“That’ll cost you, wife.” He rasps, so Sansa kisses him once more.

"Will that do?"

"Might do." After wiping the knife on his sleeve, he grins and then hands it to her carefully, handle side up.

“Look at that, will you?” Jaime huffs. “All these years, I had no idea it was so easy to tame the Hound.”

Shrugging, Brienne laughs softly and then sits beside him. “Every man has his weakness.”

“That they do,” Jaime quietly agrees, all the while staring at Brienne in a most thoughtful manner. Turning, Sandor raises his brows suggestively at Sansa, who then starts laughing once more; Sandor soon follows, much to the confusion of their companions.

After running the blade across the strapping a few times, Sansa soberly moves Jaime’s head closer. “You want your head clean shaven or cropped close?”

“Which are you better at, my lady?” Jaime teases her.

“Both. Our maester in Winterfell taught me how to shear the boys,” Sansa smiles at the memory. “Robb was too vain to let me practice on him, what with his beautiful auburn curls and all-“

Choking down her tears, Sansa sniffs sharply as the pain of the childhood memory washes over her _. Robb’s gone now, as is Mother and Father. And Bran, Arya and Rickon are in hiding. But the wolves will come again,_ Sansa repeats to herself, _and Father is protecting us_.

After a moment’s pause, she clears her throat and continues. “But Jon, gods bless him, no matter how many times I butchered his hair, he would let me keep trying on him. He has very curly hair too, you know, the same color as Father. Come to think of it, Theon would let me practice on him, too; in fact, he got the worst of it, I recall.”

“And he will yet again, believe that.” Sandor snarls low and mean as he leans over to kiss Sansa on the cheek. “He’ll beg the Stranger to take him before I’m through, buggering bastard.”

Shivering, Sansa nods slightly as she turns to embrace her husband.

Glancing between them, Jaime interrupts. “Close shorn if it pleases you, my lady.”

“But Jaime, then people will still see your blonde hair.” Brienne protests while frowning at him. “You need to be clean shaven in order to disguise yourself.”

“No, nothing doing.” Jaime shakes his head and then winks at Sansa. “I’ll dye the rest along with Lady Sansa here. We’ll look like brother and sister when we’re done.”

Gaping, Brienne frowns while Sandor barks out a noise that could be a laugh. “You’d fucking better not try anything else _brotherly_ with Sansa, lion, or else you’ll find yourself gelded.”

“Could we please just get on with this?” Sansa shakes her head with a laugh, a deep flush spreading over her cheeks at Sandor’s implication. Confused, Brienne tells Jaime: “Sit still now, we need to get moving soon.”

Sansa works quickly but methodically, and in less than a quarter of an hour she is finished with Jaime. Running his hands over his head, he grins at her. “I never had a barber that was so pretty, my lady. Many thanks.”

Blushing, Sansa studies her feet while Sandor sternly glares at Jaime. “Enough of that now.”

“Cool your heels, Hound,” Jaime dangles the bag of hair dye in front of him. “It’s Sansa’s turn now.”

“No, gods be damned!” Sandor swears loudly, shoving Jaime’s hand away. “That shit can't be good for her. She can keep her head covered.”

“Clegane, be reasonable,” Brienne interjects. “The dye comes from natural ingredients. You wouldn't fear black walnuts in cookies or black tea if she was drinking it."

"No!" Sandor snarls low.

"You cannot expect Sansa to keep her head covered all day, every day. What if a strong gust reveals her hair in the midst a crowd?" Jaime interjects. "Besides, the red color identifies her as northern. The dye is a protection for her. It will wash out, Sandor.” The man calmly remarks, his voice uncharacteristically solemn. “Sansa’s hair is beautiful, tis true, but she’ll only need use it until we reach White Harbor.”

“Is that where we are going?” Sansa cannot help but ask, for so far neither Jaime nor Sandor has shared their plans with her.

“Yes,” Sandor rasps low. “We make for White Harbor. What say you, lass? Do you wish to color it?”

Cringing, Sansa swallows hard. “If this will help keep us safe, then yes, I want to do it, Sandor.” Taking the knife from her sash, Sansa quickly braids a length of her hair and then cuts it off, tying the ends with a small piece of ribbon. “Here, Sandor, you can keep this to remember my red hair.”

“I don’t need hair to think of you, wife.” After tucking the love lock into his jerkin, Sandor tenderly brushes a strand out of her eyes. “And you are beautiful, Sansa, hair or no.”

“Thank you.” Lip quivering, Sansa kisses his hand and draws a deep breath. “Go ahead, Brienne. Let us get this over with.”


	60. An Unexpected  Discovery

Under Sandor’s watchful gaze, Sansa kneels by the stream rinsing out her laundering. His young bride never fails to surprise him, for she is able to move around their rough camp working and cleaning with the same grace in which she traversed the Red Keep. Though they are relatively safe in the small glen, he is ever vigilant, ever watchful, and now that they are expecting a child, the Hound has returned in Sandor even stronger than before.

It began not long after they left the Quiet Isle. Images of an enormous wolf dog hybrid, black and fierce, with gray eyes and a distinctly scarred side of his head running ahead of a red coated she wolf haunted his dreams. In each vision, he protects her, kills lions and stags and squids alike to keep her safe, and yet when alone with her, the massive animal is gentle, even tender. _Get her a dog; she’ll be happier for it._ Sandor does not know if these dreams are from Lord Eddard, but over time Sandor has come to believe the persona of the Hound is a necessity, one he cannot afford to put away just yet in their perilous position.

He has tried to hide it from Sansa, disguise his instincts as his usual protectiveness, but Jaime is not fooled. Sandor often catches the lion smiling at him in a knowing manner, a manner in which only men who have served as brothers in arms can share or even understand. It is in an altogether different attitude in which his old persona has morphed, one that is protects and strengthens Sandor-not destroys him, as it once did. And like the obedient dog that he still is, he watches over his own vigilantly.

Brienne has watched these silent exchanges between the men, but to her credit, she says nothing. Sandor finds her an amiable and formidable companion, for the young woman is far more devoted to Sansa than he initially expected her to be, and for this he is grateful.

Sansa has surprised Jaime with her willingness to do chores, never complaining, and in the eyes of both men, she hardly resembles the child they met in Winterfell. Oftentimes Jaime throws out observations which are thinly veiled complements to her, though Sandor isn’t sure if Sansa takes the comments in the spirit in which they are given.

 Perhaps for the first time in his life, Sandor has something beyond his physical prowess and fighting ability of which to be proud-he is proud of the woman his wife has become, proud of the woman who now carries his child, and it, too, is a far different feeling than he has ever known.

Finishing her work, Sandor notices the exertion has rendered Sansa even more beautiful and glowing, her cheeks rosy in the brisk evening air. Daintily she then washes her face and arms, shivering as she does so, no longer bashful to bathe in front of him and the others as she once was. Frowning, Sandor watches as Sansa stares into the water for a long while and then dips her fingers in, the rippling effect breaking her reflection on the surface. With a deep sigh, she then raises her eyes to Jaime, settling into a heavy glare as her eyes flit up to his similarly darkened hair.

Jaime, for his part, raises his canteen to her with a wicked grin. “You’re looking as lovely as always, my lady! Camping out must agree with you.”

Annoyed, Sandor shouts, “Fuck off, lion.”

“Sandor!” Sansa scolds lightly, shaking her head at Brienne, who rolls her eyes understandingly. The relationship growing between the two women is another source of surprise to the man; though they are very different, Sansa has embraced Brienne wholeheartedly. Both women seem to draw strength from one another, something neither Sandor nor Jaime has observed in the other women they have known in their respective lives. “Thank you Jaime.”

Jaime merely laughs and then swings himself onto his horse. “Maybe later, Clegane, I’ll take you up on that if I’m not too tired. We’re off to scout. If it’s no hair off your arse, you might hunt us up some real meat, Hound, while we’re gone.”

While Brienne and Jaime leave to scout ahead in search of the next water source, Sandor, Sansa and Elder McCann stay in camp. After they depart, the holy man transforms into his bear form to patrol the perimeter of the camp, leaving the family alone.

“That was strange,” Sansa remarks as she refills Sandor’s canteen. “I would think Jaime would have preferred that you go with him rather than Brienne. Do you think there’s danger close?”

“You best believe there is,” Sandor snorts, absently stirring the glowing ash underneath the fire before adding another log. “We’re travelling through the middle of a gods be damned war.” When Sansa’s face tightens with fear, he hastily adds: “The lion just wants to be with her alone for bit, I’ll wager. Come sit by the fire, wife; the morning is chill.”

Abandoning her work, Sansa settles in between his legs and tucks her feet beneath her, and Sandor delights in her nearness. “What is it, little bird? Don’t like what you see in your reflection?”

“No,” she frowns once more while absently running her fingers through her wild locks. “It’s so dark. But I suppose this is what I would look like if I had taken after the Stark side of the family. Arya and Jon’s hair is this color, you know.”

He does remember, and Sandor figures it is not mere vanity that bothers his young wife; no, it is because the color of her hair stands as a constant reminder of her estranged siblings. It is not as brown as Sansa believes it to be, for her hair has taken on a deep chestnut appearance with reddish highlights that still catch the sun.  

He has noticed that she is very self-conscious about her hair since the change, but the darker color only serves to deepen the azure color of her eyes, which now stand in stark contrast to both her skin and her hair. It gives her a haunted, striking beauty, an occurrence which is a bit unfortunate, for both he and Jaime agreed after Brienne finished with the color that Sansa’s lovely face already garnered far more attention than they would like and that the new brown color only intensified her beauty.

Jaime, to Sandor’s surprise, could care less about the change in his own appearance, though the color looks far darker on him than it does on Sansa. _Might be it’s a pleasant change for the lion not to be seen as a Lannister after all,_ Sandor thinks to himself.

While Sandor doesn’t like Sansa’s current hair color as well as her original auburn, he cannot deny that his wife is every bit as beautiful as she was before. To anyone who is familiar with Sansa’s appearance, it isn’t much of a disguise, he knows, but he figures it is implausible that they would run into many people on the road who have seen Sansa with enough regularity to be able to recognize her. Still, it is equally not likely that Baelish will give up the hunt, a point Jaime has brought to his attention several times.

Keeping his dark thoughts to himself, gently Sandor pulls a lock through his index and middle fingers, the gesture causing Sansa to turn toward him with a small smile. “I’m neither Tully nor Stark anymore, at least not in appearance.”

“In the sun, it looks more like the Young Wolf’s hair, I believe.” Sandor remarks distractedly, then inwardly curses himself for bringing up her dead brother. “Though not so curly.”

“You really think so?” Sansa sounds more hopeful as she searches his eyes. It is then Sandor truly understands the extent of her family identity and how much she needs to be a part of them, even in something as innocuous as hair color.

“Robb had beautiful hair. Somewhere in Winterfell, Mother has a jeweled chest that contains locks from each one of us. I hope to find it one day.” Quickly Sansa sets about sectioning off her hair into four separate braids after which she then winds them together into a bun at the base of her neck, her styling putting an end to Sandor’s attentions.

 _Unlikely that_. If the chest is encrusted with jewels, then he is certain Theon Greyjoy wasted no time plundering it along with the rest of Winterfell’s riches. Sandor does not put his thoughts into words, however, for the sake of his wife.

“When the baby comes, I’ll be sure to save a lock of her hair, too, and keep the tradition going.” Beaming, Sansa rubs her belly and then impulsively leans over to kiss Sandor’s cheek.

“Might be the lassie will have hair like mine,” he eyes her closely. “Might be she’ll be all Clegane.”

“Then she will be beautiful,” Sansa gushes. “Maybe she will take after her aunts.”

“Might be, could be.” Sandor sniffs, then abruptly stands to help her to her feet as memories of his beloved Sarah flood his eyes with hot tears.

Sensing his discomfiture, Sansa hugs his arm tightly against her chest. “It won’t be like it was with your parents, Sandor. We’ll make our own place, our own home far away from here, where no one can find us. I’ll give you as many children as you want, my love. And I won’t die, I promise.” Sansa nuzzles into his neck as she speaks.

“Such talk,” Sandor scoffs, shaking his head, though he allows her attentions. “You Starks might have foresight but not even you can claim to know that.”

“I’ve seen it all, Sandor,” Sansa reminds him. He has heard this before but still, each time Sansa speaks of her dreams, a surge of energy flows through him, and he feels compelled to pay close attention.   _Perhaps our dreams are connected somehow_ , Sandor stops to stare into her eyes as she continues.

“I’ve seen our lives together-our children, our home. We are going to be together for a very long time, so you must not fret over me and this baby.” Sansa  toys with the lacings on his tunic as she speaks.

“It’s my job to fret over you and the pup, lass,” Sandor growls at her. Tickled, Sansa laughs, the young woman long having learned to read the variations in his voice and mood. The sound of a great crashing through the bushes turns the couple’s attention to Elder brother, whose fur is now wet with blood.

“Stay by Stranger and Maiden.” He warns Sansa, who hurriedly does as she is bid while Sandor unsheathes his sword.

After the holy man transforms, Sandor drapes a blanket over his nude form. “What in Seven Hells happened to you?”

“Riders, four of them,” Elder McCann gasps out. “They escaped Jaime and Brienne, who are further up the road with a prisoner and finishing up the dead as we speak.”

“What was their sigil?” Sandor demands. “Out with it!”

“No sigil. Some band of outlaws…they call themselves the Brotherhood without Banners. Ghosts who wait in the dark who prey on the weak, the man said whom Jaime recognized. Beric-”

Snorting, Sandor spits derisively on the ground. “Dondarrion? Beric Dondarrion?”

Elder brother nods. “Aye, that’s it. The man said Ned Stark sent him to kill your brother. Jaime called another Anguy the archer. A red headed man went by the name Thoros. Said you men competed in a tourney for Ned Stark together.”

“I won that tourney for saving the Highgarden boy from Gregor,” Sandor confirms while casting a glance toward Sansa, who is staring at him with the same fear he so often saw in the Red Keep, a sight that at once enrages him. “I heard rumors of those men. Stark deserters, Baratheon deserters. They found the so-called Red god and use their bloody religion as an excuse to run from the war on their crusade.”

“They were holding another Lannister man. Jaime recognized him but said he wanted to talk to him before he brought him here. He must trust him somewhat, though, for he ordered Brienne to unbind the man.” Knitting his brow, Elder McCann looks up at him. “You don’t see this lot as very different as those knighted in service of the Seven, do you?”

“No, no different.  The gods are the most bloodthirsty of all.” Shaking his head, Sandor spits once more. “All men are meat, and I’m the butcher, only I don’t lie about who I am. I don’t pretend to smile on some and curse others. Might be the gods view me as holiest of all for it?” Sandor laughs sardonically.

“Not the old gods,” Elder McCann comments thoughtfully. “Not them. They are neither bloodthirsty nor hypocritical.”

Shrugging off the remark, Sandor begins packing their things. “Enough religious talk. We need to move.”

Observing the men’s suddenly terse demeanors, Sansa hurriedly starts helping them.

“No, wife,” Sandor places his hand on her arm, stilling her work. “You stay with Elder brother. Stay with him now. I’ll only be a minute.”

“But Sandor-“ Sansa begins wringing her hands. “With those men about-“

“No, wife,” he shakes his head. “You’ve nothing to fear from them. Stay with the elder man. He’ll keep you safe, I swear it.” Gently Sandor bends to kiss her, then hastily begins packing the wagon while Sansa tends Elder McCann.

“What did you say the men’s names were?” Sansa asks Elder brother as soon as Sandor is out of earshot.

“Anguy, Thoros and Beric Dondarrion.” The holy man hisses at her ministrations. “Gently, my lady, please.”

 “Forgive me,” Gasping, Sansa pales slightly, her large eyes fixed on him. “Did you say Beric Dondarrion?”

“Yes, he served your father, or so he said.”

“He speaks truly,” Sansa begins pouring water over Elder McCann’s blood stained hands. “I only saw him once when he came to my father’s tourney. Thoros unseated him in the joust.” Smiling softly at the memory, she adds, “He was so handsome my friend Jeyne wanted to marry him the moment she laid eyes on him.”

Chuckling, Elder McCann shook his head. “Doubt she would say so now.”

“Why?” Sansa raises her brow in confusion. “What has happened?”

“The man is considerably, shall we say, _altered_ now.”

“How so?” Stopping her work, Sansa stares into his eyes searchingly.

“His face and body both are most scarred, my lady,” Elder McCann cautiously answers. “And presently has only one eye. He did not fare very well against his latest opponent, and when we came upon him, he had been slashed thoroughly across the back and chest.”

Alarmed, Sansa stares at him. “And yet he is alive?”

“Aye, by the endowment of the Red God through Thoros.” Elder McCann sighs. “Though to see the pitiable creature, it is no gift that he lives, believe that. They would have done better to allow the Lannister prisoner to finish him and send him to the afterlife.”

As Sansa recalls, her father believed Lord Beric to be a capable warrior, even sent him to retrieve Gregor Clegane; it startles her to think him bested by an unnamed Lannister man. “Who cut him?” Sansa leans in close. “Who was their Lannister prisoner? Did you hear a name?”

“Don’t you tell her,” Sandor’s voice booms across the meadow, silencing Elder brother at once. “We’re packed and ready, little bird.”

Just then the sound of galloping hooves halts their preparations. “Look what the lion drug in,” Jaime gleefully tosses a hooded prisoner off his horse, causing the man to unceremoniously fall to the ground in a heap. “And what the kitten here refused to finish.” He winks at Brienne, who blushes deeply.

“Who is it?” Sandor frowns.

“Hound, is that you?” A familiar brogue rasps from the depths of the burlap sack covering his face.

“Bronn?” Sandor rips off the material, gaping as he does so.

“You know this man too?” Brienne asks incredulously.

“He was Tyrion’s sellsword, now Ser Bronn of the Blackwater,” Sandor explains.

“…Who abandoned my brother.” Jaime narrows his eyes on the man. Sandor notices three other man tied to Brienne's horse. Silently she dismounts and begins loosening their bonds.

“Hound!” Bronn loos up and smirks mischievously at him. “Surprised I am by the company you’re keeping, I must say.” Turning toward Jaime, he growls, “I told you, you buggering Lannister bastard.”

Jaime shrugged disinterestedly. “If I had a stag for every time some buggering sellsword told me a lie, I’d-“

“You’d _still_ be as rich as a Lannister.” Bronn spits in Jaime’s general direction.

Ignoring the men’s posturing, Sansa gently eases the man into a sitting position. ““Bronn, oh good gods-are you alright? Brienne, help me with him, will you?” Brienne quickly lifts him up for her.

“Easy lassie, I’m fine,” Bronn’s eyes widen as he takes in her figure. “Or should I say _mither_?”

Laughing, Sansa nods and moves away. “Yes, I am expecting a baby.”

“The devil, you!” Bronn roguishly grins at Sandor as he knelt down to look into the man’s face.

“Never mind that. Bronn, what in Seven Hells are you doing with the Brotherhood without Banners? And who are these other men?”

“Well if you’d untie a man, I might just tell you.” Bronn winks at Brienne. “Come on, love, take these off me, will you? Then I’ll tell it all.”


	61. The Newcomers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And just who in Seven Hells are these green boys?”
> 
> “They call the dark brawny one Ser Gendry of Hollow Hill,” Bronn barks out a harsh laugh. “Knighted by Beric himself. The fat one is Hot Pie. They were with the Brotherhood.”
> 
> Taken aback, Sansa’s eyes dart between the men until her gaze settles on Gendry. Tall and heavily muscled, he has blue eyes and thick, black hair. He is quite handsome and carries himself in an easy, almost friendly manner. Though clearly low born in both dress and demeanor, there is something oddly recognizable about Gendry. He is not unlike the many stable boys that Arya and Robb befriended at Winterfell, but there is something indefinably familiar in the young man; the discovery is oddly puzzling to her and for a moment, Sansa remains silent, lost in thought.

“The so-called Brotherhood caught me on my way to meet you.” Bronn wriggles against his confines. “Your brother sent his regards, South Paw.” He smirks at Jaime.

“Tyrion sent you to us?”

“Aye, he did. Heard from Varys that Cersei wanted to find you. Didn’t expect to find you with these two.” He grinned at Sansa and Sandor.

“Who are those other men? What did they want with you?” Sansa asks quietly. Sandor is watching her closely, the weight of his gaze heavy upon her. His sword hand flexes against the handle of his weapon, the man eager to do whatever she asks.

“They caught me on the Kingsroad. Meant to try me for Lannister atrocities,” Bronn chuckles ruefully. “Took me to some cave, they did. They mean to keep Lord Stark’s edict for Gregor Clegane’s head and dole out punishment as they see fit. A bit late for that, isn’t it, Hound?”

Sandor narrows his eyes at Bronn but remains silent. “Aye.” He allows after a moment, his look intent and frightening even to Sansa.

Bitter bile raises in her throat. Gathering her skirts, the young woman kneels down.

“Sandor, please: can we free Bronn from the restraints? He doesn’t deserve this treatment.” Gently she runs her index finger over the bindings.

Jaime exchanges a skeptical look with Brienne but after a stern glare from Sandor, both remain silent.

Grunting, the fierce man nods, kneels down and loosens Bronn’s ropes, freeing the man.

“Sandor, I believe Bronn needs a moment to rest.” She tisks with a shake of her head. After wetting a cloth, Sansa hands it to him and then passes Bronn a canteen. “Take your ease a moment, Bronn, please.”

“No need for that, milady.” Bronn takes a long draw and then wipes his face. “See for yourself, Hound.” He gestures toward the three men tied, hooded and bound to the horses. “Love, would you remove the sacks off them fellows? Clegane will appreciate the sight.” Bronn winks at Brienne, a lascivious grin spreading across his weather beaten face.

Sighing, Brienne rolls her eyes at Jaime, who nods once, indicating for her to proceed. When she removes the hoods, Sandor and Jaime both step forward, staring into the men’s eyes.

“Osfryd Kettleblack.” Jaime shakes his head. “Second to the oldest brother and known for his cruelty. Known lackey for Cersei and Baelish, according to Tyrion.”

 “Wife, I can guess why he’s after us, true enough.” Sandor spits at his feet. “An upstart knight with a made up sigil. Making a bid for a bit of Littlefinger’s coin, are you?” He runs the flat edge of his blade along Osfryd’s cheek. “Earn a favor from the queen.”

“You don’t remember me, Hound?” The man spits on the ground derisively. “That hurts.”

The insult proves useless, however, for even Sansa can see the fear in his eyes as Sandor and Jaime circle him. “Osfryd, Ser Osfryd Kettleblack.”

Sansa watches as Sandor shoots a glance at Jaime. “Your brother was named to the Kingsguard to guard Joffrey.”

“And Lady Sansa.” The man grins salaciously at her, only to receive a sharp blow to the head from Sandor for his attempted wit. Bronn reaches forward and pulls his fighting knife, the man ready to take the knight’s tongue at Sandor’s word.

“Tell me, Osfryd: why are you not guarding King Tommen?” Jaime suddenly asks.

The knight wriggles in his seat but remains silent.

“Where are your brothers?” Jaime raises his blade to the man’s throat, his eyes glittering angrily. “You three are always together. You even take the same women.”

Sansa has no idea what Jaime was getting at, but she figures from his response it has something to do with Cersei. She had always thought it odd she never heard of the Kettleblacks before Ser Osmund suddenly was up jumped Boros Blount’s place in the Kingsguard. “I’m not their keeper, am I? I don’t know where Osney and Osmund are and I don’t really care.”

Sansa is so very tired of it all: tired of trying to stay one step ahead of the Lannisters, tired of the lies and deception, tired of Petyr Baelish’s obsessive quest to find her.  It is disheartening to have been found yet again. Worse still, she has no idea how to dissuade Baelish from continuing his quest to find her once and for all. The man is obsessed, intent on sending an ever varied assortment of motley men that Sandor, Brienne and Jaime inevitably end up fighting.

“Your lies are not very convincing, Ser Osfryd. I am certain your brothers are not far away.” Narrowing her eyes, Sansa steps closer to him. The man is almost as tall as Sandor but Sansa stares into his eyes, unafraid. “Who sent you to us?”

The knight casts a sideways glance at Jaime.

“He cannot save you, if that is what you are thinking,” Sansa shakes her head. “Neither me or my husband owe deference to him. Answer me.”

Sandor twists the blade of his fighting knife into the man’s neck for motivation.

“Lord Baelish sent me and my brothers,” the man yelps, trying desperately to move away from Sandor. “If we fail, he will send more men. It is you he wants, my lady.”

The stillness of the forest is broken by an outburst of cold laughter erupting from Sandor’s throat, the sound frightening and mirthless. “I doubt he would if he saw her now.” He snorts contemptuously.

“Come with us and he will let the others go.” Osfryd continues, ignoring Sandor.

Jaime shifts uneasily on his feet as Sandor’s eyes glitter angrily.

“Bugger that. Bugger him. Bugger you.” Her husband hisses through gritted teeth. “She is mine. My woman, my wife. The mother of our unborn child. You’re as good as dead.”

Knitting her brows, Sansa distractedly sets her jaw. Lord Baelish’s stubborn persistence unnerves her. Steeling her expression, she lifts her chin at the man. “He cannot have me. You heard my lord husband. I belong to Sandor and he belongs to me. We were wedded lawfully in the sight of the gods and men. I will never go with you and I will never go to Petyr Baelish, never. Now, what of your brothers?”

“We’ll find them, one way or another,” Brienne says quietly. “Tell us and we might spare them.”

Laughing wickedly, Bronn shakes his head while Sandor sneers in Ofryd’s face. “You better hope she finds them first, Kettleblack, because I make no such promise. You threaten my wife and with her, our child. For that you’ll all die, you best believe that.”

“Alright then,” Osfryd offers. “I’ll tell you where they are in exchange for calling this off and you can send me to the Wall.“

Believing he has caught them off guard, Osfryd swings his arms wildly at Sandor’s abdomen, hoping to disarm him in the process.

Gasping, Brienne steps in front of her, shielding Sansa protectively on pure instinct. Sandor is not caught off guard, though, and Sansa watches as he merely sidesteps the man’s desperate move with a rasping laugh.

“Oh that’s a pathetic display for a knight,” Bronn taunts him.

“What would you have me do with him, wife?” Sandor quietly asks her.

She feels Jaime and Brienne’s eyes on her then, hears the metal scraping on steel as they unsheathe their swords.

“Do what you must, husband.” Sansa answers so softly that Brienne turns to her questioningly. “I trust you. Handle him as you see fit, Sandor.”

“Lady Sansa, please-“ Osfryd begs in earnest, his eyes wild and pleading.

Refusing to turn away, Sansa watches as Sandor brings his blade crashing down over the man’s head, a fine spray of red trailing in its wake.

Bronn laughs out loud at the sight.

Shuddering, Sansa moves back toward the other two young men, her legs weakening as she does so.  Quietly Brienne steps forward and drags the body out of sight.

“Start talking, Bronn.” Sandor waves his short sword in the direction of the other prisoners, who are now shrinking back in fear. “After they caught you, then what?”

“They offered me a trial by combat, how do you like that?”

Sandor shakes his head.

“Beric lit his sword with some unholy magic. The whole thing was interrupted by the arrival of Kettleblack there.” Bronn lifts his chin toward the young men. “These two were with them.”

“And just who in Seven Hells are these green boys?”

“They call the dark brawny one Ser Gendry of Hollow Hill,” Bronn barks out a harsh laugh. “Knighted by Beric himself. The fat one is Hot Pie. They were with the Brotherhood.”

Taken aback, Sansa’s eyes dart between the men until her gaze settles on Gendry. Tall and heavily muscled, he has blue eyes and thick, black hair. He is quite handsome and carries himself in an easy, almost friendly manner. Though clearly low born in both dress and demeanor, there is something oddly recognizable about Gendry. He is not unlike the many stable boys that Arya and Robb befriended at Winterfell, but there is something indefinably familiar in the young man; the discovery is oddly puzzling to her and for a moment, Sansa remains silent, lost in thought.

“Where you ever in the Red Keep, Gendry?” She finally asks, her question drawing a snort of contempt from her husband. “Did you serve the black smith there, perhaps?”

“Not bloody likely, that.” Sandor sneers in his face.

 _He’s shaking in fear,_ she notices emptily. _Well, he might as well get used to facing Sandor’s contempt. I learned to do so at a far younger age._

“No, we would never use him on castle forged steel, Sansa. Waters, you say?” She hears Jaime distantly.  Turning, he raises his brow at her as she slowly ambles past him.

Her legs suddenly feel thick and unwieldy beneath her, as though her weight is too great for her body to carry. Unable to move further, Sansa finally settles on resting herself on a nearby log.

“Take a drink, my lady, please.” Brienne kneels beside her and holds up the canteen.

Concerned, Sandor hurries beside her. “Are you alright, wife?”

“Yes,” Sansa nods. “Thank you, Lady Brienne.”

“The roses have left your cheeks, love,” Bronn comments quietly. “You take care.”

“I will, thank you,” absently Sansa pats his hand. “It is the heat.” It is not the heat, Sansa knows, but rather an indescribable memory wavering in the back of her consciousness as though just beyond her reach. _Who is this young man?_

“Answer me,” Jaime growls low, his eyes never leaving the trembling pair. “Your last name is Waters, you say?”

“Yes milord.” The strapping youth answers politely after worriedly looking over Sansa. “I am Gendry Waters, armorer’s apprentice from Flea Bottom and raised on the Street of Steel. This is Hot Pie. We don’t mean to upset milady.”

“You have not upset me,” Sansa lies easily. “I am in a delicate condition.”

“Odd company you are keeping.” Jaime sighs heavily. “Travelling with a Lannister knight and the Lord of Stokeworth, no less. How did you end up here in these woods with the Brotherhood? You’re not deserters from the War of the Five Kings, I dare say.”

“No, Ser Jaime. We wasn’t travelling with the Lannister men, believe me. My master got sick of me and sold me to the Night's Watch. Lannister gold cloaks wanted to kill me on the way and we were taken prisoner.” Gendry’s blue eyes flashed pleadingly at Jaime. “I served Lord Tywin faithful as a black smith but he left me in Harrenhal. The Brotherhood-well, they found me next, fed me. They told me I could stay with them and I meant to stay with the Brotherhood, I did. I wanted to smith for them.”

“We was kept by the Brotherhood, more like it,” the heavier young man called Hot Pie offers quickly. “We had no say in it.”

The young men are clearly flustered, Sansa could tell, their behavior recalling how she felt whenever Cersei needled her.

Gendry seems far more aware of the precariousness of their situation than Hot Pie. She shifts uncomfortably, her movement drawing Sandor’s eye. She feels is hand tighten on her shoulder, squeezing her gently, the warmth of his touch reassuring her at once.

 “He’s got a talent for fighting, that one,” Bronn smirks. “Handles a blade damned well. Look at the arms on him.”

Snorting, Sandor shakes his head. “Not unlike me at his age.”  A wicked, dangerous grin curls onto his mouth. “I wasn’t half as pretty though.”

Sansa has seen this look before and the sight of its return sets her on edge, as does his dangerous humor. Carefully she raises her hand to cover his own, patting him lightly.

“Why were you after us?” Sansa asks.

“We wasn’t, honest,” Gendry and Hot Pie stumble over their words in their haste to deny their involvement, shrinking from Sandor as they do so. “We was with the Brotherhood, true but we wasn’t after no one.”

“Not us, milords, please,” Hot Pie interjected. “We escaped from Harrenhal and then the Brotherhood without Banners-we don’t want trouble-“

“Shut up, both of you.” Sandor growls low. “I’m sick of your sniveling.”

“You bear a strong resemblance to the king I once served; in fact, it is positively uncanny,” Brienne squints at the strapping lad, her blue eyes flashing in recognition. “Doesn’t he resemble Renly, Jaime?”

“He does, very much so,” Jaime grimaces, his tone disbelieving as he steps closer. “And even more so to the king and goodbrother I once served as well.”

“Aye; true enough, that,” Sandor rasps low. “Who’s your father, boy? Tell me truly.”

“I’m Waters. I’m low born, low as can be. I don’t know my father, Ser.” The young man shakes his head violently.

“I’m no Ser, so spare me your empty words and answer my question,” Sandor saunters closer, studying him. “Your mother a whore?” Kneeling beside Sansa, he urges her to drink once more as he studies the boy in front of him.

“Tavern wench, milord.” Gendry clarifies, a deep blush indignantly flooding his cheeks.

Unmoved, Sandor silently looks over the boy as he waits for his answer.

“Sandor, maybe this isn’t the best time to ask for such details-“

“I’m used to answering me betters, milady.” Gendry nods at her. “I am a bastard for true and not ashamed, neither.”

“Aren’t we all?” Bronn scratches his chin with his knife, the man clearly oblivious as she to the conclusion her husband, Brienne and Jaime have reached without them.

Jaime and Sandor exchange glances, and their behavior stokes Sansa’s curiosity. _Could it be that Gendry is some relation to the Baratheons?_

“Never heard any rumors about who the man was?” Sandor prods further. “None of your mother’s lady friends dropped a hint? Come now. Think on it, boy.”

“Enough. We need to move,” Brienne insists. “The rest of the Kettleblacks will be coming for Lady Sansa soon enough.”

“You-you are Lady Sansa of House Stark?” Gendry asks in disbelief, the young man openly gaping at her.

“She’s my wife, that’s who she is, and don’t you forget it.”

“No, milord, please,” Gendry lowers his eyes. “It’s just that we had a friend who said-“

“What of it?” Sandor narrows his eyes, stepping in front of Sansa as he speaks. “Quit your stammering and speak up.”

“Forgive me, milord, I mean-“ He sputters. “You’re Lady Sansa? We heard of you. But your hair-”

“I am Sansa of House Stark,” Sansa approaches Gendry. “You look very familiar to me as well. Please, take a deep breath and speak freely. My companions will not harm you, you have my word.”

“I-I knew your sister Arry-I mean, Arya.” Gendry sputters out. “We travelled together for a while. She spoke of you.”

“So did I, I travelled with her too,” Hot Pie hurriedly adds. “I baked her bread, I did-“

“You-you know my sister?” Sansa’s eyes widen. Suddenly the ground rocks beneath her, causing her to sway on her feet. Sandor’s strong arms come around her waist, steadying her.

“You didn’t hurt her, did you?” Sandor hisses angrily.

“No, never, milord. We was friends.”

 _Gendry_ …vaguely Sansa remembers seeing the shade of the boy when Arya visited her in her wolf dreams. _We shared consciousness for a bit, that is how I know him._ She finally concludes with a gasp, her actions sparking another wave of concern in Sandor’s face.

“When did you last see her?”

“She was leaving Harrenhal,” Gendry offers. “She was no worse for wear. Her friend helped us escape.”

 _Jaqen is my friend. He’ll help me, Sister._ Sansa hears Arya’s words echo in her ears _._ “You were with her in Harrenhal with Jaqen, then?”

“Yes, do you know the man?” Hot Pie asks excitedly.

“No, not exactly-“ Sansa struggles to express herself, when suddenly the sound of thundering hooves interrupts the group.

“We needs move, now!” Bronn shouts while the men and Brienne scramble for the horses.

“I told you we should go!” The large woman shouts angrily. “But do you listen to me? No!”

Dazed, Sansa finds herself spirited off her feet and onto Stranger’s back as Sandor leaps up behind her and spurs the warhorse toward the tree line.


	62. To Protect the Little Bird

“Clegane has Lady Sansa,” Osmund yells out to his brother. “Get him!” 

Flashes of Lannister red and gold reach Sandor’s peripheral line of sight, launching a renewed upsurge of rage throughout his body. Spurring Stranger in the flanks, he clutches Sansa close to his chest so tightly she wriggles against him.

“The Kettleblacks send their regards, Clegane!” Osmund chuckles wickedly. “Time to give up your plaything. Come and face us!”

Seething, Sandor whirls Stranger around toward them. Unsheathing his greatsword, he bellows: “Come and get her yourself.” Sandor glances around at the others. “Come on, who wants to die?”

“I got this, Clegane,” Jaime calls out above the fray. “Just get Sansa out of here!” He pulls his mount up short and slaps Stranger on the backside, causing the animal to start to rear before he lunges forward. “Ride, Clegane, ride!”

Stranger’s massive hooves pound the dirt, kicking up a thick cloud of mud and dust surrounds them. Sansa’s fear roars through Sandor’s veins, distlling into primal rage that Sandor is ill prepared to control. But control it he must if he is to protect his wife and child.

Sandor’s first concern is the potential consequences of Stranger galloping beneath them. He knows that in her fragile state, her body is unable to endure the warhorse’s punishing pace. Though heavy with child, Sansa is still light enough to him, so Sandor maneuvers Sansa onto his lap, allowing his body to absorb the power of the thundering animal beneath him.

“Sandor,” Sansa gasps into his ear as he pulls her astride him. “Don’t drop me love, I beg.” She grips his neck painfully, her little nails fearfully biting into his skin. “The baby, please, we cannot hurt her!”

“Never,” he growls back, pressing her tightly against him. Clenching his thighs, the shock of the running animal radiates painfully through his frame, but Sandor holds fast, keeping his upper body relatively still.

“Hold onto me now, lass. It won’t be much longer now before the others stop them.”

Deep down, Sandor knows that is likely untrue, but his desire to calm her overrides the need to be honest, and at once he feels her fear begin to abate. The clashing of steels rings sharply in Sandor’s ears while Sansa buries her face in his neck in response.

Behind him, Sandor hears Maiden’s hooves pounding into the dirt, and Stranger neighs at her approach. Sandor turns to see Gendry spurring her on, positioning her between their pursuers and Stranger.

“Sansa, love, listen to me now,” he brushes her hair aside and speaks into her ear. “You remember what I said to you?”

“Yes,” Sansa eventually answers, tightening her hold on his neck. Her eyes are wild, fearful.

“Say it.” Sandor tightens his grip on her waist, pressing her small frame into his own.

“No one will hurt me again or you’ll kill them.” Sansa raises her eyes to his and rests her hand on his cheek. The trust he sees there staring back at him cuts straight into his heart.

“Damned right, I will,” Sandor growls back. “No one will hurt you or the babe, I swear it on every one of your fucking gods.” Turning in the saddle, he glances over his shoulder in time to see Brienne turning her mount and charging their pursuers.

The first man’s sword shatters under Oathkeeper’s blade, the force with which Brienne struck the man knocks him clean off his horse.

Thrusting his own sword into the man’s chest, Jaime easily finishes her opponent while Brienne dismounts and confronts the other two riders.

“Good thing I allowed her to use the sword,” Sansa whispers into his neck, burying her face there. “She’s safer for wielding it."

“Bugger her. That blade was meant to protect your people.” Sandor hisses through gritted teeth. “It was forged from the Stark's ancestral blade; don’t ever forget it.”

“Clegane, we cannot outrun them without risking Sansa,” Jaime shouts behind them. “And there’s too many to fight on horseback.”

“Fuck that; I haven’t come this far to go down without a fight now,” Bronn yanks down his mount, draws his blade and expertly opens the throat of the animal. The horse writhes and screeches as he guides it by the reins to lay down in a wallow.

It is a Wilding tactic to stop a mounted attack, for the smell of blood and the animal’s death cries cause the charging horses to buck, shy and turn away from the chase.

In a matter of seconds, the animal’s life is bleeding away into the muddied embankment while Bronn holds the horse down on his side. In minutes, the enemies’ horses began to pull up short and dance sideways, rolling their eyes in fright.

Squinting, Bronn raises up over his fallen mount’s haunches, aims his bow and without hesitation lets two arrows fly, the projectiles squarely landing into the chests of the men. Gendry quickly jumps down and finishes them.

Dismounting, Sandor sets Sansa down into a small thicket. “Hide for me, lass. Don’t come out now. I’ll find you when this is over.”

Nodding, Sansa pulls her cloak tightly around her shoulders and burrows deep into the brush.

Tearing off his dunn robe, Elder McCann quickly follows her.

“Watch over her.” Sandor gruffly calls out to the holy man.

Running into the fray, finally Sandor gives himself over to his fury. Lifting the axe of one of the fallen men, Sandor begins hacking through the soldiers who stand frozen in fear, helpless to escape the enraged onslaught of the Hound protecting his wife and child.

Several soldiers quickly slip past Sandor while he is occupied, only to meet Bronn and Gendry’s blades. Soon however, there are too many for them to fight.

“Close your eyes, my lady.” Elder McCann quietly tells Sansa as she hastily scrambles behind him.

“What-what are you doing?” She shakily whispers. “Are you-“

“I’m going to keep my vow to you, my lady,” Elder McCann squeezes her hand. “The North remembers. Now please, turn away.”

Behind him, Sandor can hear the snapping of bones and low grunting grow louder. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees the holy man brought to his knees, his body contorting and sprouting fur before his eyes. Huge shoulders emerge from his back, dropping him on all fours. Pawing the earth, the immense great bear bellows out a warning.

Sansa is cowering behind him, her eyes squeezed closed.

Turning away, Sandor struggles to focus on the battle at hand, but Osney stares over his shoulder, immobilized, terror and panic written plainly on his face.

“The North remembers and we protect our own.” Elder brother grinds out each syllable, the last words he is able to speak before the finality of his change comes upon him. The sound ends in a primal, guttural, forced, and chilling snarl, sending a sharp shudder throughout Sandor’s body.

Forcing down his alarm, he hurries to Sansa’s side, lifting her into his arms and carrying further into the wood. Sansa begins trembling violently in Sandor’s arms.

“Wife, nothing can hurt you,” he whispers into her hair. “Pray to your father, lass.”

Nodding once, Sansa squeezes her eyes closed.

“What in bloody-“ Sandor sees Bronn’s eyes widen as he stares, gaping, at the greatbear rushing forward. “Can this day get any worse? Fucking hells!”

“It’s alright Bronn,” Sandor answers. “He protects us.”

“Is that the Northern holy man?”

“Aye,” Sandor affirms. “He’s a Mormont.”

“I might’ve guessed. And he protects Sansa by turning into a fucking bear?!” Bronn slowly circles around and unsheathes his knife while never taking his eyes off the ferocious animal. “What is this sorcery? Some Northern shite?”

“Targaryens have dragons. Starks have their wolves,” Jaime concurs as he moves beside Sandor, his teasing tone intact, though at a glance Sandor sees he also shares Bronn’s wide eyed expression. “And the Mormonts have their greatbears.”

Slinging a great trail of slobber over his shoulder, the greatbear snarls and kicking up dust, challenging the men. The soldiers scatter in all directions, some trying to escape the area while others look for a vantage point from which to attack.

The horses all turn and bolt for the trees as the animal advances. Sandor sees one Lannister man climbing a nearby rock and then readying his bow.

Bronn throws his knife with deadly precision, felling the soldier.

“Elder McCann!” Sansa cries out, pointing as several soldiers rush toward her. Sandor runs toward her before the huge animal stops him short, halting his advance as he whirls toward the Lannisters. Sidestepping the creature, he then moves in front of his wife.

“Will he hurt us?” Bronn asks, alarmed. “That’s one fucking pissed off bear.”

“No,” Sandor lifts Sansa into his arms. “Only those who try to hurt Sansa.”

“But how-“ Bronn’s words trail off as the animal suddenly grabs the soldier nearest him, shaking him like a doll until his body noisily tears in half, flinging the remnants of the man in every direction, raining gore on the Lannister soldiers.

Enraged, the greatbear charges into the remaining group, grabbing the men up one by one. When satisfied, the animal returns to Sansa and Sandor. Blood drips from his fangs as he positions himself between Sansa and the remaining men. Cowering in his arms, Sandor sees his wife raising her hands to her face.

Almost tenderly, the greatbear turns and nuzzles into her for a moment, then raises his hackles as he faces the men once more. Standing on his hind legs, the enormous animal roars out a frightening sound before charging the rest of the host.

“You thought it was just a sigil, didn’t you?” Sandor smirks at Bronn.

"Aye."

“Stay out of his way.”

The soldiers clamber behind the rocks, tripping over one another in their haste to escape. The tied horses all begin to buck and neigh loudly at the sight of the greatbear, fighting against their reins as the animal nears. 

Instead of charging, the bear once again paces in front of Sansa and Sandor, snarling and challenging the men in his anger. The greatbear’s claws scrape along the ground, kicking up dust as he thunders his warning, the sound raising the hair on Sandor’s arms and neck.

Silently Sandor speaks to Lord Eddard. _Save your girl. Protect her. Save your granddaughter. Watch over her_ , he repeats like a prayer. He cares not for what happens to him or the rest; his only concern is his wife and child.

The Lannister men are so fixated on the bear that they pay no mind to Jaime, Bronn and Gendry, who take advantage of the distraction to circle around them. Without hesitation, Gendry slits the throats of the lower soldiers while Bronn and Jaime take on the Kettleblack brothers.

Gently Sandor sets Sansa on her feet and jumps into the battle. “Go to her, Brienne!”

Hurriedly Brienne maneuvers beside Sansa. “Come, my lady.” She reached for her arm. “The elder man…the bear and I must get take you away from here.”

“But Sandor, I can’t leave him here-“

“Sansa, go!” Sandor shouts over his shoulder.

“You must, my lady,” Brienne insists, lifting her by the arm. “The men can handle it now.”

“No, I will not leave Sandor,” Sansa determinedly shakes her head, “we are stronger together. He needs me as I need him.”

Sandor knows she is right, though his desire to keep her safe overrides his reason.

“Sansa, go with Brienne. Go now!” He watches her eyes fall on the greatbear, who at that moment charges toward the fighting. With powerful strokes, the beast swipes the remaining men to the ground, allowing Sandor and Jaime the upper hand needed to deal the death blow.

* * *

 “Go on ahead with Sansa now,” Bronn insists, using the toe of his boot to turn over one of the Lannister men, “find a safe place to stow her away. We’ll follow up after.”

Sandor sighs, his eyes wandering over to his wife, who is barely visible in the nest of furs he made for her. After Elder McCann’s change, he brewed chamomile tea and insisted Sansa bed down. Curled into a ball, she is now sound asleep.

The men watch as Hot Pie shimmies down from his hiding place in a pine tree. Not far away, Gendry inspects Stranger and Maiden’s hooves.

Bronn nods toward them. “That blacksmith is a good man to have around. And strong as an ox, he is. Go on, take them with you. Find a safe place for your wife.”

“Safe place? There is no safe place for us,” Sandor paces, running his hand through his hair. “Her family is dead, save for the little ones. Winterfell is sacked. Littlefucker sends every lowlife who wants his coin after us. Then we got these so-called knights who’ve turned into religious fanatics-the Brotherhood without Banners, bloody hells.” He spits on the ground. “Look at her; she’s exhausted. The lass can’t take much more, not with the babe on the way."

“You could hide with the clans for a bit, like you had been,” Bronn offers after a moment. “Go into the Vale.”

“The Vale is where Baelish is,” Brienne shakes her head. “He’s bound to find her there. We’re not terribly far away from our destination, Clegane. A few more weeks and-”

“We’re not close enough,” Sandor sniffs the air, recognizing the sharp smell of snow carried on the wind. “And winter is coming.”

“You sound like a bloody Stark.” Jaime jeers.

“Might be being married to Sansa has changed me into one,” he glares at the man. “Your bloody family did their best to make them extinct and so Lord Stark send me to watch his daughter.”

Nervously Jaime eyes him. “Eddard lost his head or have you forgotten?”

“Aye, he did, thanks to your brat. I was there. I’ll never forget it, nor what it did to Sansa!” Sandor spat out. “Make no mistake, lion: I’m not the honorable Eddard, so mind your tongue.”

Anxiously Brienne glares at Jaime.

“As much as I’ve enjoyed this little reunion, I’ve got to return to Lollys,” Bronn scratches his head. “The babe is not three moons yet, and the Lannisters will be suspicious if I’m away too long.” He grins at Jaime. “Your sister knows better than to trust me too far.”

“Many thanks, Bronn. Give him a horse,” Sandor calls to Gendry. “If you need to find us again, we’re headed north.”

“I didn’t find you; the Brotherhood found me,” He laughs outright. “Got myself caught, that’s what. Thanks for the rescue.” Bronn then turns to Jaime. “Your brother can be reached through the Spider, if needs be.”

“Where is Tyrion?”

“On his way to find the dragon queen,” Bronn shakes his head with a grin. “He means to try and talk her out of roasting the rest of your kin.”

Jaime pales at the comment.

“Gendry, where’s that horse?” Sandor shouts out.

Gendry steps forward leading a young black stallion by the reins. “Here, milord. Chose the best one.”

“This one will do nice,” Bronn winks. “Kiss your pretty wife goodbye for me, Clegane.” With that, the Lord of Stokeworth disappears into the brush.

"Where to now?" Jaime turned to Sandor.

"How close are we to the Twins?" 

"A days' ride."

Frowning, Sandor steals a glance at Sansa's red hair peeking out from the furs

"There's an inn along the way; perhaps we should rest." Brienne suggests, pointing to her map. 

When Sandor starts to hesitate, Jaime adds: "The men who were after us are gone and it will take a bit for word to reach Baelish."

"Alright," he reluctantly assents. "We'll leave at sundown."


	63. The Trail

The Mountains of the Moon cut a ragged path across the darkened horizon, the unmistakable landmark dividing the Vale from the Riverlands to the west. The air is sharper, crisper, and the clean smell of snow carries on the wind in the pinewood forest. Sandor decides he prefers this climate to the sultry environs they have traveled through the last seven moons.

The group traverses the thick underbrush, climbing ever higher over the winding rock paths of the foothills. Pine needles crunch beneath the horses, perfuming the air its heady fragrance.  Closing his eyes, Sandor inhales deeply, thanking Lord Eddard for their welfare.

From the nest she has made in his arms, Sansa softly whistles, then pauses and listens. Flitting above them, red robins return her call, much to her delight.

 “My lady, look,” Elder McCann holds out a bright yellow bloom. “It is heartleaf arnica.”

After twirling it through her fingers, she brings it to her nose and breathes in its scent. “It does not have much of a fragrance but it’s pretty.” Delicately Sansa tucks the flower behind her ear.

Sandor snorts, shaking his head. “You and your pretty things, wife.”

“What?” She asks innocently. “There is nothing wrong with enjoying pretty things – and I am not the only one who appreciates beauty, my lord husband. I recall you enjoy taking in pretty scenery as well.” Tweaking his chin, Sansa leans back in his arms with a satisfied smirk.

Sandor notices the red highlights blazing defiantly in Sansa's dark hair. Desire simmers in her deep blue eyes, and gently she cups his cheek.

Unbidden, visions of her beautiful body riding him with abandon takes hold of Sandor, sending the heavy pulse of lust through his core. It has been too long since he has had her, and the sheer want of her renders him speechless.

“You’re the only person in the Seven kingdoms who would dare cuff the Hound, my lady.” Jaime laughs low, interrupting them. Sandor cannot help but grin at Sansa, who appears vexed at the golden knight for interrupting them.

“Aye, she is.” Sandor finally agrees, and brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed her tenderly.

 "Enough already," the knight rolls his eyes. "I'd sooner you fight for true than watch this spectacle."

“I would never fight or cuff Sandor, Ser Jaime.” Sansa primly she smooths down her skirt after reluctantly pulling her hand from Sandor’s grasp, “My touch was merely a love pat.”

“As you say.” Jaime mocks.

By the way Sansa's back stiffens in the saddle, Sandor knows the man is aggravating her. Gently he pulls her back flush against him, allowing her to feel his hardened length press against her firm bottom.  Softly she gasps, her hips wiggling in reply, her irritation forgotten. It amuses Sandor to no end that their naughty secret, the lover’s game between them, can so easily inflame her and Sandor is loath to end it.

 Elder McCann gives them a pointed look. “The herb is excellent for healing, my lady. With your permission, my lord, I would like to take a few moments to gather it.”

Sansa discreetly leans forward until Sandor rights himself and nods at the man. “Do it, then. Don’t tarry.”

“Thank you, my lord. I will brew you a tea once we reach the inn.” The holy man bows and then proceeds to collect the leaves and flowers, meticulously enveloping each in burlap before gathering them into his satchel.

“It’s pretty here, isn’t it?” Sansa softly gushes close to his cheek, her warm hand squeezing his forearm under the blanket as she gazes about. “I think we should like it here, don’t you?”

Chuckling, Sandor tenderly pats her belly in response. “As you say, wife.” The bracing air surrounds his words with wisps of frost. “The wolf in you ought to appreciate these frigid gusts.” He draws a deep breath through his nose, relishing the sharp scent of evergreens. “Haven't smelled that pine scent since traveling to Winterfell.”

“Oh, yes indeed! It is the scent of home!” Sansa wiggles in his arms, her girlish excitement evident, once again reminding Sandor that she is still tender in years, if not experience. “It’s been so long since I felt the cold on my face. It is quite invigorating.”

He nods. “Especially after all the humidity and heat of the last months."

“The beginnings of winter ravages the countryside, my lady,” Jaime shakes his head somberly. “Do not delude yourself into thinking it pretty.”

Glaring, Sandor turns in the saddle to face Jaime. “Fuck you, lion.”

Brienne glowers at Jaime, who belligerently laughs.

“You are the last person I need to remind me of winter, Ser Jaime,” Sansa speaks each word with care, “If you were of the north, you would truly understand the winter. I would never deign to explain it to a Lannister."

"Winter came for you Starks when you left the north." Jaime raises his brow at her.

"Winter came when your _family_ arrived at my family seat. Make no mistake, your _nephew_ brought it to the realm when he took my father’s head. And the north remembers.”

A sharp tremor moves through her. Sansa’s back is straight and her eyes unwavering.

 Lowering his head, Jaime clears his throat. “Hound, you remember how the Riverlands looked before the Greyjoy Rebellion, when we were clearing out the rebels for Robert?”

Grunting, Sandor swallows down his anger bitterly. “Aye, I remember it well enough.”

“Very little action came your way, I dare say, considering you were following behind the horses.” Jaime scoffs. “A pity for a boy as talented as you were." He leans closer to Sansa. "It is in the Clegane blood, you know, this gift for violence that Sandor possesses.”

“You consider it a pity that a young boy missed out on the bloodshed of that horrible war?” Brienne turns up her nose at him. “I consider it the grace of the gods.”

“You speak truly, Lady Brienne,” Sansa quietly answers, her hands squeezing his thigh lightly as she speaks. “And have a care for the way you speak about my husband, Ser Jaime.”

Sandor remains silent, his mind wandering back to his youth. Having grown up in the golden grasslands of Clegane Keep, he had never seen as much greenery as dominated the Riverlands. He was green then too, as green as the abundant trees surrounding he Kingsroad that held his fascination.

He remembers how excited and proud he was to participate in the last leg of the siege. He had already killed and thought himself experienced; but the youthful pride he felt soon vanished in the wake of the Lannister slaughter. The carnage surrounding them didn’t permit Sandor to remain innocent for long. Gregor and his men left a blood-soaked trail; as familiar as he was with his brother's work firsthand, the viciousness and magnitude of the bloodshed shook Sandor to his core. Memories of dead women and children with their heads split open, of the men who rested on spikes elicits a shiver through the man.

Seemingly sensing his dark mood, Sansa comfortingly strokes his forearms. Her tender touch jolts him back to the present. Hands shaking, he reaches around her and pulls her flush against his breastplate. Sandor clears his throat in a vain attempt to force down the lump that threatens to choke him.

The Lannister host decimated what little was left of the holdouts in the forests from Rosby to Greywater Watch, and seeing the knights in action had only increased his disgust and reaffirmed his decision never to become one of them. It was dirty work, that siege; Sandor is relieved he didn't make it to the Red Keep, that he was not a witness to what happened there. Ned Stark couldn't stomach it, Sandor had heard it said; he wonders why the man ever thought to subject his family to the Red Keep, why he did not return Sansa and her sister to the safety of the North himself.

“That was a battle, to be sure,” Jaime shakes his head, drawing Sandor out of his thoughts. “Your brother sealed his reputation there.” The knight glances at Sansa. “To be sure, my lady, your husband is nowhere near the monster that Gregor is; I can attest to that first hand. But you are certainly safer with him than any man in the Seven Kingdoms, so don’t fret over these clansmen.”

Her brows furrow as Sansa dips her head in recognition. “Perhaps this conversation should wait for the sake of safety,” Sansa’s eyes never leave his own as she speaks. “We don’t know who is about in these woods.”

Sandor clears his throat in a vain attempt to force down the lump that threatens to choke him.

Her brows furrow as Sansa dips her head in recognition of his distress.  Reaching around him, she draws down his head and warmly presses her lips to his cheek.

“As you wish, _milady_.” Jaime interrupts with a raised brow toward Brienne, who frowns in return.

“I do wish it.” Sansa’s tone offers no quarter for protest. Her eyes settle on Brienne.

“I will see to his silence, my lady.” She nods to Sansa knowingly.

The ensuing silence permits Sandor to clear his mind, to focus and scrutinize their surroundings without distraction.

Once the human voices are silenced, birdsong and chipmunk chattering resumes through the wood. From the rich black dirt at their feet to the flitting creatures above them, the evergreen copse veritably breathes life. If Sandor had ever experienced peacefulness, he would name their current surroundings thus, even as he considers the dangers the forest canopy conceals.

“No one’s been through here recently, seems to me.” Sandor mutters to himself. “No trails, no matted down vegetation. No humans disturbing the place with hunting and what not. No horseshit.”

“You speak truly, my lord.” Elder brother raises his nose to the air and inhales deeply. “Save for our own, I cannot detect the scent of man or beasts of burden.”  Cocking his head, the holy man motions for them to be silent. “I hear no sounds of man, either. Still, my lady speaks well; for we should all keep quiet lest someone suddenly comes upon us.”

Brienne turns and holds up two fingers, first pointing toward the ground and then shaking them toward the right. The inn is two leagues off the main road.

“Are we there yet?” Shifting, Sansa leans further into his arms. “I am ready to nap right off of this horse.” Absently she rubs her belly, drawing his attention to the babe concealed within her.

“Almost, lass,” Sandor rasps in to her hair. “You’ll get a bed soon enough.” Frowning, his eyes follow the movement of her hand across the swell of their child once more. “Are you in pain?”

Sansa slides her hand to cup his cheek. “The baby is kicking like a newborn colt; that’s all; it’s quite tiring. I don’t think she’s taking to riding today.”

Swallowing hard, Sandor grunts, for he has feared their hard travel would tax both Sansa and the babe. “We’ll find a way to rest you both for a bit.”

Sighing, Sansa turns to face him. “How? There is no way. You know it, and I know it,” she raises his hand to her lips and tenderly kisses his knuckles. “You are sweet to try to spare me but I am not ignorant to our situation. We are too far from the ports to take a ship, and even if we were able to reach one, I am certain Lord Baelish has spies aboard every vessel. We cannot risk any other means of travel.”

Gritting his teeth, Sandor remains silent and stares into her face, the man trying not to panic at the image before him.

Bruising purple circles rim Sansa’s eyes. Wan cheeks peek out from wisps of deep chestnut hair. Her lips are pale. Bitter tears well in her eyes. Looking down, Sansa plaits her fingers with a sigh.

“Pardon my gloom,” she twists in his arms. “I am just so tired, so very tired of running – of everything, really. I just need to feel safe. I need a place to settle, to make a home for our little one.”

Utter helplessness seeps through Sandor, burning his heart. He cannot give her what she wants – or what she needs. They must keep moving or else risk Littlefinger’s discovery. Fresh hatred burns in his veins for the man.

“Do not fret, wife,” Sandor gently grasps her chin. Her eyes widen as she peers into his gaze. “We won’t be on the run much longer, I swear it. We’ll seek out Bronn’s men after we shelter. And I will hunt every last one of Littlefinger’s men down, if that’s what it takes to keep you safe. We’ll leave the lion and Brienne and run away to some tiny abandoned cabin in these woods until our child is born.”

Giggling, Sansa smiles up at him. “There is nothing I would like better, Sandor.”

Turning to Elder McCann, Sandor barks out, “I want you to find the trail of the clansmen, do you hear?”

“Yes, milord,” the tall man kicks the flank of his horse and rides toward the western horizon.

“Just a bit further, and you can rest in a fine bed – or as fine a one as we can hope to find along this shite trail.”

“Will we go to the inn that Jaime mentioned yesterday?”

“Aye, if all’s secure. Should be coming upon it soon. Brienne and Jaime, reconnoiter the place first.”

Brienne dips her head at him and spurs her horse onward, with Jaime following suit.

“Littlefinger’s men are everywhere-“ Sansa wrings her hands beneath the fur robe. “By the Seven, that man plagues us at every turn.”

“I wished I had killed him when I had the chance. One of the many regrets I have to contend with,” Sandor leans over and spits. “Would’ve made things easier, that’s for true.”

Sansa shakes her head slowly. “We needed to get out of King’s Landing, and that’s exactly what we did. We couldn’t risk tarrying; it was far too dangerous.  I just had no idea that Lord Baelish would transfer his obsession with my mother to _me_.” Shivering, she huddles back against him.

“Let _me_ worry about Littlefucker, Little Bird.” Sandor strokes her cheek, the man hoping his touch will reassure her of his commitment to protect her. “You just mind the babe.”

“Where will we go from here?” Sansa rests her hands on Sandor’s forearms, breathing in deeply as she does so. “It seems we are surrounded by Lannisters or Baelish’s men.” She turns her deep blue eyes up to him, hopeful and fearful at the same time. “We can’t hide in an inn forever.”

Sandor can feel the warmth of his skin through his tunic, can feel the tension in her small frame. Her eyes did not waver from his face; instead, she searches his expression for reassurance.

Though well aware of the dangers lying before them, Sandor gives no leeway for her to doubt.

Allowing himself a small smile, Sandor smooths her hair and kisses her forehead. “We’ll stay in the foothills of the Vale, wife. Bronn knows the clansmen here and he promised he would ease the way for us.”

“I suppose, at this point, the clansmen are preferable to the soldiers,” Sansa whispers quietly. “But I cannot help but be afraid of them. And the travel will continue to be hard.”

“We'll go deep into the foothills. After Jaime offers his coin, the clansmen give up soon enough, I’ll wager.”

Sandor feels another deep shudder move through her, so he pulls her tightly to his chest.

“Are they really as fierce as everyone says?” Sansa looks up hopefully at him.

“The ones I have encountered fought like wild bears, lass, believe that. But the bloody bastards respect men with burns, the fools. My _pretty_ face is a sign of my skill with a sword to them, and I doubt they’ll try me.”

"The inn is quite safe, Clegane." Brienne brings her horse in step with Stranger. "Only a few clanspeople, probably Bronn's men."

"Good."

“And those clanswomen will like you well enough, Clegane,” Jaime teases behind them. “Sansa will have competition for true.”

“Your face is for me and me alone, so those clanswomen better beware!” A gentle pressure from Sansa’s hand draws down his head to her and before he can react, she kisses him fully on the mouth. “You are mine.” Her eyes twinkle with amusement, and Sandor believes, a bit of jealousy.

Rudely Jaime leans over and makes retching sounds, amusing Podrick and Elder McCann.

“Stop it!” Brienne scolds them. “I have had enough of you men! And so has my lady!”

Barking out a harsh laugh, Sandor slowly shakes his head at Sansa, who is now looking at him as fiercely as her sigil. “Don’t fret your pretty little head over it. They will leave us alone.”

“I hope you are right.” Resting back in his arms once more, Sansa sighs softly and closes her eyes.

The danger in their situation whispers accusingly in his mind, but Sansa is too fragile for the truth now. He will wait to tell her after she is rested and stronger.

“So do I, Little Bird,” he murmurs into her hair. “So do I.”


	64. The Stone Crows

The evening sun rests low in the sky, bathing the weathered log inn in its burnt orange glow. The rustic structure appears as though it sprung from the dense pine forest itself. The sunlight spread reddish-gold beams through the shining evergreens.

Elder McCann darts off into the forest, his movement drawing Sandor’s eye.

Singing and raucous laughter break the evening silence.  Brienne and Jaime’s word is not enough to entrust the safety of his wife; Sandor decides he will secure the area himself.

“Watch her, boys.” Sandor growls at the young men, his eyes narrowing on Gendry’s sword. “Don’t let anyone near her.”

“Yes milord.”

Biting back his reply, Sandor sharply turns away from them.

After kissing Sansa, the man swings off of Stranger, draws his sword and creeps up the building.

Brienne unsheathes Oathkeeper and follows. Jaime stays behind with Sansa, Hot Pie, and Gendry.

“I knew he’d want to look for himself.” The lion smirks.

“I cain’t says I blame him,” Gendry comments quietly, “his wife is a special woman. So is her sister.”

Jaime starts to speak, but Sandor’s displeased bluster silences him.

Built out of the granite outcropping, the log structure is old but well maintained. Moss and wild honeysuckle crawl along the brick walls to the second floor windows, perfuming the cold air.

The smallish size and layout of the dwelling will serve their purpose well. The south facing entrance provides a natural barrier, securing it from sudden attack. Ducking under the eaves, Sandor glimpses through a small window pane.

Inside, several buxom kitchen wenches are entertaining a handful of clansmen. None appear sober. Otherwise, it’s rather restrained compared to most of inn common rooms Sandor has encountered. Satisfied that all is safe, the man returns to Sansa and gently lifts his wife to the ground.

Brienne and Jaime lead the horses to a small barn and Sandor welcomes the quiet their absence permits.

“All is well. It’s in surprisingly good condition, this inn.” Sandor mutters low. “Curious.”

“How so?” Sansa knits her brows at him. “Perhaps the war didn’t reach them here. The road is narrow and would be most difficult for a soldier host to traverse.”

_She’s right about that._

 “Mayhap my brother quartered here and so the others let it be.”

 “He is not our worry any longer,” her small hands pat his arm, “and I thank the gods you sent him to the seven hells.”

 Snorting, he shakes his head. “Gregor’s not the only person we needs concern ourselves with; you know that, wife. We should be safe enough for the time being. Still, we’d better take turns keeping watch.”

"Oh, no! I have been looking forward to sharing my bed with my husband all night.” Sansa purrs in his ear, her naughty comment eliciting a throaty laugh from the man. After Sandor scans the area once more, he leads her toward the inn.

“Wait!” Sansa pulls away. “I cannot go inside like this. I have to fix my appearance.”

Glaring, Sandor mutters. “Gods, woman! We've no time for this! For fuck’s sake, you’re already prettier than any woman has a right to be. Those bloody Stone Crows are like to kill us all and steal you away, keep you for themselves.”

“I’m not being vain, Sandor.” she interrupts with a frown. "I meant that I look too…highborn.”

Gendry nods. “She’s right, milord. Anyone can spot it in her, clean and proper as she is.”

“What can I do?” Sansa turns toward the young blacksmith. ”Help me, please.”

Gendry and Hot Pie exchange glances. “You’re too clean, one. And your words too proper like.”

Drawing a decided breath, Sansa kneels and places her hands in the fresh mud, then smears her face and gown.

Gendry and Hot Pie quietly snicker as they watch her.

“You know the horses have been here, milady…”

“All the better, then," Sansa straightens her shoulders. "It won’t be the first time I find myself covered in horse manure.”

Even filthy, she still moves like a lady, delicate and graceful. Eyes widened, Sandor smirks at her.

“Your sister push you?”

“Not exactly,” she giggles. “She placed a plate of lemoncakes in the horse stall and asked me to fetch them for a picnic we had planned. Claimed she forgot them when dressing my horse. So, I went traipsing in, all dressed in my best finery, and promptly slipped in the horse manure.”

Throwing back his head, Sandor laughs until tears form in his eyes.

“That sounds like Arya.” Hot Pie snickers, and Gendry nods in agreement.

“Oh, it gets worse. I slid right into the post, and the plate – and all the lemoncakes – landed on my head. My brothers laughed until their sides hurt. Jory, who was my father’s handsome master at arms - had to fish me out,” Sansa giggles and holds her sides. “He carried me back to the castle, the both of us leaving a trail of filth as we went, and the entire staff laughing at us. Jory laughed too, but I was so mad and embarrassed that I didn’t speak to any of them for a moon’s turn.”

Pulling her into his arms, he rasps into her ear: “You’re the prettiest pig I’ve ever seen, little bird, wallowing in the mud like that.”

"I'm glad to hear you say that." Sansa steps away, then surprises him by running her mud-covered hands all over his face and armor. Hot Pie and Gendry guffaw, their merriment drawing Brienne and Jaime out of the barn.

Turning deep red, Jaime slaps his leg and doubles over while Brienne discreetly giggles into her mailed glove.

“Enough.” He takes Sansa by the hand. Behind them, he hears the lion snigger once more.

Sandor shoves the knotted oak door harder than he intends before stepping inside. Silence falls over the common room, while a group of startled eyes turn toward him. As expected, the patron’s mouths gape, each fearfully taking in his scarred countenance. Only the Stone Crows seem unperturbed.

_Let them look and see that I’m not a man to trifle with; let them see what I am capable of overcoming._

Sansa squeezes his hand, urging him further inside. Glancing around, he needs duck under the low frame. When no one speaks, Sandor lets out an annoyed huff and offers his hand to Sansa. Hot Pie and Gendry follow behind them, as does Jaime and Brienne.

An older woman bustles toward them. “Welcome, milord,” she addresses Jaime. “You’ve the look of a Lannister lion.”

“I can’t tell you how often I’ve heard that, good woman,” Jaime grins broadly at her, causing the old lady to blush. “Three rooms if you have them for my companions and me.”

“Aye, we got ‘em.” She raises her brow. “We got food, ale and whores, too – but they don’t come cheap. You got coin?”

Sandor tosses a pouch full of coin on the bar. “We got coin, old woman. This should buy us food, lodging, baths and ale, as well as silence.”

“It do at that, ser,” she barely glances at him as she fingers the coins. “Rowena’s the name. I got medicine too, if you need it.” The old woman nods toward Sansa. “Your lady looks a bit peaked. You in the family way, lassie?”

“Aye, I be.” Sansa softly drawls while lowering her eyes.

Behind her, Jaime coughs out a laugh until Sandor's foot meets his shin.

“You a woods witch?” Hot Pie asks. “She might could use one.”

“Might be, at that. Could be.” the old lady smiles her toothless grin and laughs at her own joke. “You know of me, lad?”

“I heard ‘bout you in my travels.”

"And what's the word?"

“Only that if me or mine got ill, you was the one to see. Rowena. I didn’t see much bread downstairs. So, you need a baker?”

She sizes him up and down. “Aye, we do. Can’t pay much besides meals and a roof over your head. You want to fuck, you got to take it up with the girls. They barter for it sometimes.”

The young man blushes clear to his throat.

“You wanna to stay here, Hot Pie?" Gendry interrupts, alarm written on his face. "What about Arry?”

Sandor watches the young man awkwardly shift on his feet.

“Why not? It’s as good a place as the likes of us have been.”

“But you cain’t go, not now…” Sansa pleadingly clutches at Hot Pie.

“We can’t keep the lads if they want to leave us.” Sandor says with finality, though he gently draws her arm through his own.

“I’ll not leave you, milord.” Gendry quietly answers before skulking away.

Rowena gazes between them. “Let me know before you go.” Waving to Sandor, she says, “Come on this way, big man. Your woman looks about ready to faint dead away.”

The room is small but clean, with a wood barrel tub, a thick straw bed piled high with worn flannels and furs and garderobe. Sandor tests the substantial oak door, levying its weight against his own.

“Oh it’s nice.” Sansa sighs long and low to distract the woman.

“Send your men to the kitchens and I’ll make sure there’s plenty of hot water for you, lassie." Rowena turns down the bed. "You go on and lay down. If ye like, I’ll send up some medicines for ye.”

“Thank ye kind.” Sandor eases Sansa onto the bed and removes her shoes.

“Thought you might, big man.” Rowena cackles. "Your woman ain't well. You needs look after her better in her state."

“Our man is a healer too, mayhap you speak to him first.” Sandor narrows his eyes at the woman. "And I'll thank you to keep your comments to yourself."

A soft knock on the door startles him. With his hand on his dagger, Sandor jerks open the door.

Elder McCann, dressed in smallfolk clothes, is carrying a tray laden with herbs and cups.

“Come and see me when ye through.” Rowena makes to leave. "I'll see to your meal."

Ignoring her, Sandor asks: “Where did you get the change of clothes?”

“An obliging clansman,” Elder McCann grins up at him “I felt it wiser not to dress as a brother of the Seven.”

“I’m sure you’re right about that.” Sandor looks him over carefully. The man is well built, broad of shoulder and almost as tall as he is, which is a rarity in the south.

Rowena stares up at him with inquisitive eyes.  “What’s your given name, healer?”

“My name is Bjorn Varg McCann.”

Silently Sansa slips her hand into his own, squeezing lightly as she does so.

“You’re of the Free Folk!” The woman crows and Elder McCann confirms with a smile. “I knowed it! I’m from the Thenn. Southren men aren’t half so tall as northerners, excepting the Clegane brothers.”

 _She speaks of me and Gregor in the same breath._ Fury roils through Sandor, and it is with great difficulty that he maintains his calm façade. He feels Sansa’s soft fingers entwine through his own until she squeezes hand once more.

“What do you know of them? He grinds out, subdued rage robbing him of his breath.

“Not a thing. Saw the elder once. A monster he was. A bigger, crueler man there never was.”

“You speak true, ma’am.” Gendry’s voice answers. “I seen him too. At Harrenhal.”

 “You’ve the old gods ta thank ye survived him.”

“Yes ma’am, I do. My friend Arry prayed every day to ‘em.”

“That one raped and kilt our whores, all of them. Cain’t say I was sorry he was kilt.”

“The younger ain’t such, I’ve heard, both in temperament and size.” Sansa quietly offers.

“Aye, I heard the same. Fair, that one, but ferocious. Heard it took a Clegane to kill a Clegane. Kinslayer or no, I don’t hold it against him none, and he be welcome here.”

Rowena sizes Sandor up once more. “You ain't no Stone Crow. A Burned Man, are you?”

“What do you think, old woman?” Sandor seethes in her face. “My pretty face tell the story well enough for you?”

“For true, I think you are.” He watches her throat working as if to swallow. “Well good on you, then.”

Without uttering a word, Sandor recoils and then hands Rowena a stag. “Go on then. Away with you.”

“Yes, thank ye kind for all ye done us.” Sansa chimes in.

Sandor watches the old woman takes her leave, then bolts the door.

“I thought she’d never shut up.”

Elder McCann laughs nervously. “I’ll be seeing to your lady wife, milord.”

“Go on. Do it.”

As he watches the holy man work, Sandor thinks about the young man’s true names.

“Fitting designation for you, holy man,” he pushes off the door frame to stand in front of him, “Bjorn, since you change into a bear. Varg for the reason that you help the Stark wolves.”  He studies the young man’s eyes for signs of deception, but there is only calm curiosity in his returned gaze.

 _The holy man doesn’t appear to be lying. How could he have been named such as a babe?_ Uncertainty courses through him, along with the now familiar chill that accompanies the uncanny goings-on connected with his wife.

“Yes, it is fitting, isn’t it?” The young man blushes under Sansa’s equally inquisitive, no less intense scrutiny.

 “Fear inspiring.” She answers softly, her hands clasped together now.

“The old gods told my mother what to call me in a dream.”

“Is that so?” Sansa leans forward and rests her elbows on her knees and her hands on her chin.

“Yes, but it is a story for another time.” Bjorn urges her to sit up. “Let me listen to your lungs.”

Obediently Sansa leans forward and inhales while the holy man presses his ear to her back.

“All clear. Still, you are retaining water in your legs and hands.” Frowning, he searches through his medicine bag. “My lady, you must rest and exercise your legs more.”

Retrieving what looks like bark to Sandor, he then places it in a mortar and begins grinding it into powder.

“Well she bloody well can’t do both.” Sandor scoffs, watching the man work.

“You must see to it, milord, for the sake of your wife and the child both. Lady Sansa won’t have the strength to birth the babe if she doesn’t get more exercise.  And my lady must eat more - much more. All three meals and three snacks besides. No more tack and jerky.”

“I eat the same amount as I always have,” Sansa’s lips turn downward. “And Sandor provides me with plenty of fresh meat.”

“You need more variety; grains and fruits and vegetables.”

“It sounds like an awful lot of food. Must I eat even if I am not hungry?” Sansa’s petulance carries through her voice, amusing Sandor.

“Aye, hungry or no. The babe needs the nourishment, my lady, and it takes from your body what it needs.” The holy man tucks Sansa in the covers. “That is why you have been so tired and weak.”

She casts a frightened look toward Sandor; her fear radiates painfully in his own chest at the elder man’s words.

“But the babe…the babe is safe?” Sandor faintly asks, his heart pounding in his chest.

Bjorn gazes between them before continuing. “I believe the babe is growing at a normal rate. Likely the child has taken after you, my lord. Lady Sansa’s paleness and dark circles tells me that she is suffering for it to be thus.”

“And Sansa – is she safe as well?”

“For now.” Gently he lifts her hands closer to his face, examining them. “Your nails are ridged also. You needs take in copious amounts of fresh milk, too; goat or cow, makes no matter.”

“I’ll see to that.” Sandor clears his throat.

“Plenty of porridge with honey and milk every morning, followed by honeyed mead and black bread and chasteberry tea. Afterward you must get some exercise, and again after the noon meal as well. Before retiring, you will have hot milk and honey and another cup of chasteberry tea. Once you settle among the clans, I will go about fermenting milk and grain kefir for you as well.”

“The crone here is a woods witch, mayhap she can help you with that.” Sansa offers quietly.

“Good, very good. I will speak to her on the morrow, my lady; hopefully I will be able to secure the herbs I need to treat you.”

“I’ve got the coin for it.” Sandor mutters low.

“You needs not fret about going to the common room. I’ll have your meals send up, my lord and lady.”

* * *

After Sansa has eaten her fill, Sandor joins the men and Brienne in the common room. The innkeeper stops stacking heavy logs along the brick fireplace and offers him a nod.

The revelers have taken the women upstairs, and three clansmen remain by the fire, quietly talking, their deep voices resonating throughout the room.

“You be the Lannister Hound.” The largest of the three sidles up to Sandor. One eye is missing, covered in a messy fur patch, and the man squints as he stares at him. “I see it in ye.”

Sandor figured the man to be as tall and wide as the simple minded stable hand the Little bird’s family employed at Winterfell. He is draped in a bearskin cloak, with the animal’s head as a hood even though the room is hot.

_He’s too old to spar with me. But the other two look to put up a fight.  
_

Jaime and Brienne come forth to stand on either side of him, both exchanging nervously glances as they position themselves.

The other two clansmen only grin at one another. Both men are also very tall, but their heavily muscled builds are apparent even beneath their furs.

_These had better be Bronn’s men._

Sandor feels the side of his mouth twitching as his eyes fall on the broad axe of the third man. His right hand tightens on the pommel of his sword under the table as he drains the last of his ale.

“My own dog now, with a wife and a child on the way. I’m not looking for a fight, but a fight is what you’ll get if you make trouble for me or mine.”

 “The cheek of the devil himself, lads!” The old man threw back his head and chortles. “Just as Bronn claimed!”

The two others join in the merriment.

“She a beauty like mine eyes never sawed, your woman is.” The old man stares directly into his face, all but ignoring Sandor’s threat. “Stolt her from the inbred king, did ye? Good man!” He laughs loud once more. “You gotta pair on ye, for true.”

“High praise indeed,” Brienne murmurs acerbically. “What business, ser?”

“Nay, lass; no sers here in this place save the Lannister lion.” The clansmen’s eyes fall on Jaime warily as he waves his hand. “You think we cain’t see through the cheap tobacco dye?”

“Enough chattering. We’ve a friend in common.” The third man grunts and finishes his ale as the old fellow glances over Jaime with a raised brow. “Got news from him.”

“Oh, aye?” Sandor calmly pours the man another glass full.

He nods. “Says the lion missing a paw is the half man’s brother.”

“Yes, Tyrion is my younger brother.” Jaime’s jaw tenses. “What of it?”

“Our friend and we is friends with the half man. He be good to the Stone Crows. Shagga owe him a few, the devil imp.” The huge man licks his lips. “Cain’t trust him for shite, but we like his coin all the same.”

“How do I know that you really know my brother?” Jaime leans in. “How do we know you’re telling the truth.”

“You callin’ us liars, boy?” The old man shouts, slamming his huge fist on the table.

The lion steps back, hand on pommel.

“Gentlemen, please,” Brienne nervously steps forward. “Perhaps you can tell us something only a friend of Lord Tyrion would know.”

“He had a whore named Shae who traveled with him.” The old man squints at Brienne. “Pretty thing, with dark curls and an accent. Said Clegane’s woman’s lady mither tried to take his head in the Eyrie. So pretty was Lady Stark that Conn was gonna take her to wife, but that old manservant of hern did for him while the half man beat Grenn to death with a shield.”

“That would be Ser Rodrick Cassel.” Jaime sighs deeply. “He’s tough as steel that one, like most northerners I’ve encountered. At least before the Greyjoy boy murdered him.”

The bear-man grunts out a laugh, then glances between Sandor and Jaime. “That enough for ye or do we needs tell more tales?”

Sandor sighs with a nod. “Aye, it’s enough.” He raises his brow to Jaime, who also assents. “What else did Bronn say?”

“Said he had a favor to ask from the Imp. Paid us good for safe passage for ye, he did. We’re to take all ye to our village and secure safe travels soon as the little mither is feelin’ up to it.”

“And what are you to do in the meantime?” Brienne asks.

“Drink. Whore. Eat.” All three men laugh and down hasty gulps of ale.

“Well, then, I guess we should buy you another,” Sandor rasps out and waves Rowena over to the table. “What are your names?”

“I’m called Dolf,” the old man says, “these are mine kin, Torren and Shagga. Mine others are with the whores.”

Jaime nods with a grin. “Shagga, I know that name. My brother did speak of you. You have my apologies. We needs be careful, you understand.”

Shagga glares at them in silence. “Tyrion was a fair little lord.”

Dolf scrutinizes Jaime with a scowl. “Don’t need none of your sorries. We don’t trust you none, either, lion. Dolf serves the old gods, and your gods don’t live here in the hill country,” he turns toward Sandor, “but a man with a face like that, a man who kilt the Mountain, Dolf would set his store on.”

With great difficulty, Sandor twists his mouth into a mockery of a grin. “My brother tried to take my woman. Best not make the same mistake.”

The old man glowers, meeting Sandor’s eyes unflinchingly. The man impresses him, for precious few men have ever dared look him in the eyes, and those who did, didn’t do so for long.

“Clegane, Dolf and his sons ain’t men to hurt women heavy with child. It’s not the Stone Crow's way; not the way of the old gods. Her father was a northerner and a good man he was when he sheltered at the Eyrie; the Wolf saw we was fed in that bitter winter right before the war, even though bloody Lord Arryn disapproved. Dolf and his sons, aye, we’ve not forgotten. We’ll keep your woman safe.”

He drew out a long silver blade and drew the edge over his palm. “I swear it on me blood.”

Without breaking eye contact, Dolf offers the knife to Sandor.

“Clegane-perhaps it would be best to wait-“ Brienne interrupts; out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jaime shush her.

Holding the old man’s gaze, Sandor draws the cold blade over his own hand, the man ignoring its sting.

“I accept, and it’s blood I’ll seek, _your_ blood, should any harm come to my woman.”

Dolf’s eyes glint then; the old man cackles and nods his head approvingly and holds his hand out to him, the two shaking on their vows while their blood pours like wine out onto the table.

True to his word, when Sansa was rested, Dolf and his sons led them from the inn, and after two weeks of hard travel, they safely arrive at the village deep in the Mountains of the Moon.

“Little bird, wake up.” Sandor whispers in her ear. “We’re home.”


	65. The Lion's Plan

Morning dawns cold and clear in the mountains of the Vale. Jaime takes in the jagged ridges of the Giant’s Lance cutting a deep gash across the awakening sky. The overnight cold has revealed a bevy of aches and pains in Jaime’s body, and so he raises his head heavenward whilst languidly stretching his limbs.

It is expected in men who have fought most of their lives; even Sandor –a man who has taken less beatings in battle than most - is similarly plagued, moving stiffly through his morning chores, a slight limp in his gait. Sansa dotes on him, always offering to rub him down with a new potion she crafts with the women healers; as for the man, true to his nature, he never complains.

The Stone Crows have allowed them the use of two tiny cottages in exchange for whatever mundane work the men do not wish to do: hunting, shoeing, tanning hides, and splitting logs for firewood. Menial work, the very kind Jaime has never done before.

Being expected to serve these beastly characters in exchange for their crude accommodations offends the pride of him, the Lannister heir, the one who has been _served_ since he drew first breath beside Cersei. It is a pleasant morning, the sky clear and as blue as Brienne’s eyes, and so he forces his twin away from his thoughts for the present; there will be time enough for it later when he is deep into his cups.

The Stone Crows do not hold to the traditional roles for men and women that Jaime grew up on and have given his tasks to Brienne.

Lacking one hand has made his efforts more challenging still, and he spends most of the time mucking out stalls while Brienne and Sandor take on the harder tasks. 

The men scowl at him but say nothing, and have started to approach her for help as well. In this environment Brienne has blossomed under a measure of freedom that she has never before experienced.

Sansa has taken up weaving on a rather ancient loom Sandor repaired for her. He finds northern highborns far more capable than their southron counterparts, and she, too, has thrived. She demonstrated a simpler, more efficient way to pour candles to the clanswomen, and also explained a way to extend the wick. She has made goat’s milk soap as well and the women seem to flock to her.

Sansa’s true talent, however, lies in her weaving. Her intricate patterns meticulously woven out of simple roughspun are the envy of the clan, and thus, despite her obvious highborn upbringing, she has won over the elder women and men alike.

At the creaking of hinges and gentle laughter, Jaime looks up from his work. The harsh noise from Sandor’s throat is a mockery of Sansa’s melodic sound, which grows louder still as he lifts his wife over the threshold and settles her on her feet.

The former Hound’s frightening face is twisted into a horrible mockery of a smile, and yet Jaime can see the man is genuinely jovial. Never before has he seen such peace in the man; not for the first time, Jaime feels he is an intruder on their happiness. And never before has he felt more alone.

Neither Sandor nor Sansa see him in his current position inside the tool shed and so he remains silent, waiting for them to notice him. They do not. Incredulous, Jaime watches the huge man step off of the small porch, then turn his back to Sansa.

Tenderly the young woman gathers his long hair in her small hands and binds it, kissing his cheek and nuzzling his nape, all the while giggling at the chiding words of her husband. When Sandor turns to face her once more, she surprises him with a kiss on the nose and the pair laugh once more.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Brienne has paused her work to watch the couple as well, a small playing on her mouth as she does so. There is a wistful glint in her beautiful eyes takes him by surprise.

“And here are the first place winners of the title for Westeros’s most nauseating couple.” Jaime cannot resist grousing as Sandor and Sansa draw near.

“Fuck off, lion.” Sandor growls while settling Sansa before her loom. She is moving slower now, so heavy with child is she, and the fierce man is even more affectionate with her than before.

Smiling up at Sandor, the blushing young woman kisses his hand before releasing him and the Hound seems loathe to turn loose of her. Jaime had felt a similar urge within him as Cersei grew with their children; but he had never been free to express his affection.

It is difficult to believe the doting husband before him is indeed the fierce Hound Jaime has known since boyhood. _My father would never have guessed that a pretty redhead would be the Hound’s undoing._

Many an evening he and Brienne discuss the change in the man and her assessment that all of Clegane’s attempts at courtesy are reserved for his young wife seem accurate. Sandor is his usual gruff self with everyone else and appears on the verge of murder with anyone who dares draw close to his wife.

Clegane’s hair has grown down to the middle of his back, and his beard thicker than he wore it in King’s Landing. His muscular frame has also grown steadily larger from the hard physical labor; with his black hair pulled back and his scars exposed, he looks like the lycanthrope demon who has plagued Jaime's nightmares since boyhood.

Never had Jaime seen Sandor more barbarous than the day the Kettleblacks tried to steal Sansa. It was the one time he genuinely felt afraid of Sandor Clegane and he had advised Brienne not to approach him. Since then, he has also tried to steer clear of their ursine northern holy man as well.

Much to his surprise, Sansa shows no signs of fearing Sandor. Observing the couple has brought the realization that it is not that Sansa has somehow demanded a transformation in Clegane, as Tyrion believed, but rather that Sandor has willingly done so because he wants to be a better man for her. And though he is unwilling to admit it even to himself, Jaime finds there is a growing need within him to do the same for Brienne.

Instinctively his eyes search her out once again. Raising the axe high over her head, Brienne deeply arches her back before splintering the pinewood into three uneven shards. There is certainly nothing feminine about his housemate for true, but Jaime finds Brienne’s athletic form pleasurable to look upon and her strength strangely compelling.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sandor is staring at him, his hard gaze tearing Jaime out of his thoughts.

“Good morning Jaime, Brienne,” Sansa smiles genially, glancing between the men.  

The burned side of Sandor’s mouth twitches, a sure sign he is already annoyed.

 “Letting your woman do your work for you, is that the way of it, lion?”

“Why not?” Jaime casually saunters over to Brienne, the man hoping Sandor did not notice his attentiveness toward her. “She’s better at it than I am.”  

“True enough, that. You don’t work worth spit.”

Brienne’s eyes twinkle in fun, and Jaime knows she is secretly pleased by the praise.

“Good show, my lady.” Jaime claps loudly. “Carry on.”

Brienne merely bows and returns to her work, her dismissive air piquing his ego.

“We should have a wood chopping contest included in our next melee. You will win the purse for certain. What say you, my lady? Lannisters pay richly, I assure you.”

Brienne rolls her neck and shoulders, all the while glaring at him. “You won’t get me back to King’s Landing any time soon, Jaime, especially not for some ridiculous melee, and all the gold of Casterly Rock wouldn’t persuade me otherwise. I’ve had my fill of that place.”

“As have I.” Sansa quietly chimes in, her voice uncharacteristically cold and hard. “And I hope to never attend such again.”

“Lady Sansa, would you deny your husband the opportunity to prove his worth?” He waves toward Clegane, his gesture quickly quashed by the growling coming from Sandor’s throat.

Sansa does not raise her eyes from her weaving. “Sandor is worth more than all the gold in the Seven Kingdoms, Ser Jaime.  No melee performance would convince me to the contrary. You must believe that I would never risk his life over such foolishness.”

Sandor snorts at him, his eyes dangerous and challenging as he turns toward him.

“I once saw men compete at braying like a jackass at a traveling fair; perhaps you should include that too, Jaime.” He sinks his axe into the log, the powerful movement punctuating his words. “You will win the spot for certain – that is, if your sister isn’t in the match.”

Jaime cannot suppress his laughter. Once he gives in to merriment, so does Brienne.

Eagerly Sandor’s keen eyes dart between them. Ever the lady, Sansa tries to conceal her amusement.

The last thing he needs is for the Hound to sniff out his true regard for Brienne. The two men have mercilessly teased each other over the years; nevertheless, Brienne is the one person Jaime does not want Clegane to use as the object of his taunts.

“Alright, lion, you’ve had your fun. Mind your own work and leave us to ours.” Brienne shakes her head, the exasperation in her tone belied by the glimmer in her startling blue eyes.

 _Does she sense my feelings?_ His heart races at the thought. Jaime narrows his eyes at her, but again, she turns away and sets another log on a stump.

When Sandor abruptly turns his back to them, Jaime’s eye inadvertently wanders over the curve of her hips and bottom in the leather breeches she favors.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sansa watching him curiously.

“Don’t arch your back so deep, it affects your aim,” Jaime clears his throat. “Keep your posture straight this time.”

“Do you really expect me to take woodcutting lessons from _you_ , the only man in the Seven Kingdoms who has never carried his own firewood, let alone cut it himself?” Brienne rests her hand on her hip, challenging him.

“Not so, my lady,” Jaime frowns, feigning offense. “When we were on campaign, the Hound started my fires, ‘tis true, but I carried the wood. Isn’t it so, Clegane?”

“I started them, aye,” Sandor huffs, shaking his head as he begins skinning the doe in front of him. “Your father commanded it. Bloody foolish, that.”

“Jealous?” Jaime innocently lifts his brows.

The only thing more fun than teasing Brienne is teasing Sandor.

“Any grown man who can’t start a fire isn’t much of a man,” Sandor spits out angrily, his voice dark and rasping.  “I’m surprised Tywin didn’t have a man to wipe your arse for you, too.”

Rolling her eyes, the tall woman notches the top of the log with the edge of the blade before raising the axe once more.

“Would you both just spare me this nonsense and let me get back to work?”

“As you wish, my lady.” Jaime bows, but Sandor merely snorts and returns to his work.

Drawn by the sound of their banter, a number of the clansmen are watching her, their hungry gaze bringing Jaime’s temper to a simmer. They view her strength, size and battle prowess to be most desirable, and in the three months they have lived among them, the maid of Tarth has had several offers of marriage.

So distressed was Brienne by this newfound attention that she had begged him to claim she was his. Jaime readily agreed, though his motivation for doing so goes far deeper than merely helping out a fellow soldier; he is in love with her.

“Enough with you men, leave my woman be.” Jaime barks roughly, the sound met with shrewd laughter.

Despite their rough ways, the clansmen respect the bonds between man and wife, and so despite their amusement they disperse, and Brienne smiles gratefully at him.

It is the least he can do for her, Jaime muses as his eyes follow her. Brienne has brought a serenity into his life that the man has never before experienced. It is very pleasant, and not something Jaime wants to give up. Yet part of him is proud the men of the clan see her worth.

Brienne is her own woman, fierce and strong, gentle and tough. Despite her physicality, she is also soft and tender in ways the northern she-wolves will never be; in Jaime’s eyes, these qualities elevate her far above the Stark women.

The tall, athletic soldier will never be compared to exquisite beauties like Cersei or Sansa, he knows, but Jaime finds Brienne appealing enough. Rather than her strength repulsing him, he finds the marked differences in the women to be intriguing and satisfying.

There is plenty of beauty in Brienne too, but Jaime has learned that a man needs to search for it. It does not adorn her outwardly, like one of Cersei’s frivolous, fussy gowns. Her beauty is within, much like a rock he once saw opened in his father’s mines: on the outside it appeared dull, even ugly. Jaime believed it should be sent off to the quarry, but when the skilled smith opened it, he was surprised to find stunning amethyst and citrine shining as bright as the sun on the Sunset Sea.

Not all of Brienne’s appeal is inside, however, for her peaches and cream complexion is dusted by a sprinkling of freckles across her nose that Jaime finds adorable. Her short blonde hair shines as beautifully as Cersei’s ever did and sets off her honest, sapphire blue eyes. Try as he might, Jaime finds he can no longer deny his feelings for her have grown into love, nor does he want to do so.

Cersei continues to recede further into his memories, the man rarely thinking on her unless he is comparing her to his current housemate. He wonders if forgetting the woman he once loved should rightly be this effortless, this natural. Perhaps it is a kind of mercy from the gods, though Jaime knows he has done little to deserve it.

When they were children, Jaime had wanted to jest with Cersei as he now does with Brienne; he wanted to tease her and make her laugh the way he had seen countless other men do with their sisters. But his twin never enjoyed his wit. Words were weapons for Cersei from the time she became a woman. She would not suffer using them lightly.

Tyrion, however, was like him, and adored a good joke. His razor sharp wit bested Jaime many a time, much to the brother’s amusement. Tyrion’s never spoke harshly to Jaime and reserved his rancor for Cersei and their lord father.

As time passes, Jaime misses Tyrion more and more. It is not the first time they have been separated but the very real possibility that he may never see his younger brother again weighs heavily on him

Laughter draws his eyes toward the stable, where Sandor and Sansa are working together. Sansa’s cheeks are flushed, and her eyes sparkle with amusement. Sandor’s mouth turns up in one corner while he runs a lock of her hair between his fingers.

Sansa is not nearly as easy to get along with as he originally imagined – not unlike her father. And like Ned, her silence speaks volumes. The night before, Brienne recommended he speak to Sansa in private to cool the animosity between them. And in truth, Jaime does not wish to argue with the Stark girl and yet it seems they cannot help but provoke one another.  

The young woman is normally gentle and kind, and friendly to most. She won over the elder Stone Crows easily enough, men and women alike. And though it seems she can forgive the Hound for King’s Landing, she has no quarter to spare for a Lannister lion. When Brienne approached Sansa on his behalf, the she wolf made it clear that she did not welcome such an interaction and so they are now in a somewhat of a stalemate.

Mayhap she knows he took her father into custody, or that he killed Jory Cassel; the man had been far below her but he clearly hoped to win Sansa’s hand, Jaime recalls. In fact, it was after observing Sansa with Ser Rodrik’s son that Robert decided to make Ned an offer for the girl. Perhaps Sansa had shared his affection and resented him for killing her hopes. These questions weigh heavily on the man but there is no way he can ask her such things without terrible consequences. Sighing, Jaime turns his attention back to Brienne,

Perhaps it is instinctual, the animosity between the Lannisters and Starks. And why not, for what place does a lion have among wolves? Sansa certainly does not seem to view him as part of her pack. Nevertheless, Jaime is determined to prove his devotion to her safety, even if she is never more than civil toward him. He owes her lady mother that much, at least. And Jaime has an offer to make that he hopes will prove himself to her once and for all.

With a grunt, Sandor stomps across the yard toward him.

“Out with it, Jaime.” He leans in close. “Speak up.”

Sandor’s regard is so intense that Jaime cannot bear to look him straight in the face; instead he focuses on the white snowflakes dotting his shoulders and hair.

“As your wife’s people are fond of saying, Clegane: winter is coming,” Jaime holds out his hand to the snow. “The Stark words are as much a threat as a fact, you know.”

Sandor nods.

“We cannot tarry here for long.” Jaime gestures around them.

“No shit, lion. What are you getting at?”

“There’s undoubtedly a hidden objective, in that Ned had Lord Reed cast a glamour over the keep he built for Sansa. Before I left the capital, I heard talk of the return of the Others.”

“The fuck you say!” Sandor whistles low. “Says who?”

“The old bear Mormont. He begged Robert to send more men to the Wall.”

“I never heard such.” Sandor rubs his beard thoughtfully. “But I do recall the ravens from Castle Black arriving not long after we returned from Winterfell.”

“Yes, well, you know Cersei. She didn’t want the talk to frighten Joff and she commanded that no word of it be spoken in the presence of her children.”

“Joffrey was too stupid to be afraid of _Stannis_ ; I doubt White Walkers would have inspired any dread in the lad.”

 “Nevertheless,” irritation seeps into Jaime’s tone, “I believe we need to get her to the keep as quickly as possible.”

“I _would_ but Sansa cannot travel without risking the babe.” Sandor hisses low, his eyes closing in thought. “You see how well she’s doing settled here.”

“I know,” Jaime nods, “she cannot endure much more hard travel for true. And the good weather won’t hold much longer. I’ve an idea. Brienne and I can ride ahead and scout out the place. We can work to secure it further and ready it for the babe, while you travel slowly.”

“I don’t know, Jaime…” Sandor winces but does not finish.

“Yes, you _do_.”  Drawing a deep breath, Jaime closes: “You’re a practical man. You know it. There is no other way.”

“Fuck me sideways,” Sandor growls under his breath. “You have the right of it.”

“What say you, then?” Jaime searches the unreadable face of his boyhood friend, the man desperate to know his thoughts. “Will you assent to our going?”

“Aye, lion, we’ll do it your way.” Sandor finally draws a deep breath as his eyes wander over to Sansa. “When will you leave?”

“I can speak to Brienne tonight, and we’ll start making plans for the journey. We should be ready in a sennight.”

“Good on you, then.” Sandor agrees quietly. “Thank you.”

For perhaps the first in his life, the Hound offers Jaime a smile, leaving the man to think there may be hope for Clegane after all.


End file.
